


level set power

by whiskybusiness



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Something Made Them Do It, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskybusiness/pseuds/whiskybusiness
Summary: New message fromunknown, the notification says.Damn, Mingi really has to get a new phone.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Song Mingi
Comments: 138
Kudos: 410





	1. Chapter 1

It takes six circular loops to get the string of his whistle fully wrapped around his finger. 

Mingi’s counted. He’s swung the red string a million times, wrapping and unwrapping it in that classic cool lifeguard way, gum tucked up in his back molars as he surveys the kids and grandmas in the water below him. 

Indoor lifeguarding sucks. Instead of luxurious sunshine warming his skin to a toasty gold, he gets bright artificial pool lights. Instead of breaks every half hour, he gets them every hour, because nobody’s afraid he’ll get sunstroke and faint into the pool when he’s _indoors_. 

At least he gets to wear a shirt so the swimmer jocks can’t see how winter has added an extra layer of softness to his stomach, because it’s too cold to run, he’s too poor for a gym subscription, and he’d rather watch K-pop dance practices on YouTube than do a fucking burpee on his gross apartment floor. 

None of this changes the fact that indoor lifeguarding is boring as shit. 

He works on his physics problem set during his last break so he can come out of this shift with something accomplished. Aside from the $50 added to his bank account, of course. Tragically, his hot coworker with the top energy isn’t even here to stand over his shoulder and help him out, and smile slightly lopsided when Mingi explains how he just totally doesn’t know how to calculate escape velocity, ha ha, he’s so dumb, right? 

Blah. Mingi shoves the assignment into his backpack and clocks out right at 8pm, not a second later. Bye, fuckers! 

He’s home, showered, horizontal on his bed, and ready to beat the fuck out of his meat to Abella Danger — or Colby Keller, huh, that might be a move — when his phone bleeps a notification from an app he doesn’t remember downloading. Its icon is a little clock made out of a skull and it’s called “TimeOut.” 

Creepy. 

New message from _unknown_ , the notification says. 

Damn, Mingi really has to get a new phone. This is just like that fucking U2 album they auto-downloaded to all the iPhones in what, 2012? Steve Jobs’ ghost really has to chill. Mingi’s storage already loses its shit every time he opens a Snapchat; he really cannot handle the app store downloading stuff without telling him. 

The app looks like your standard messaging app except with a pretty bleak color scheme, like its user experience designer was a really dedicated goth. The message is:

_Hello, Mingi. I apologize for the intrusion into your phone. Please don’t be alarmed. I am contacting you because I represent an organization that deals with potentially criminal situations, and we would like to engage your assistance with one of these situations._

_Hah_. Mingi stares, lower lip hanging open as he rereads the text. Then he snorts. _is this a prank_ , he types back.

The reply comes so fast he wonders if the person had it pre-written. _It’s not a prank. We have identified you as the ideal person to assist with this particular case._

_are you with the police ?_

As Mingi waits for a reply, the texts, including the one he just sent about the police, disappear. Like, they completely vanish. He refreshes the app and the chat remains blank. What the fuck?

He waits a second, kind of disappointed when nothing pops up. Well, that was fucking weird. He shrugs mentally, about to toss the phone on the bed and grab his laptop to jerk off instead, when:

 _We’re not the police. We are a private organization. I can’t tell you more unless you agree to assist us._

Mingi stares again. Then he tries to screenshot the message as fast as he can, because Yunho has _got_ to see this so he doesn’t think Mingi’s finally gone batshit. 

_Screen capture disabled for this application_ , his phone tells him. 

The text is gone when he dismisses the alert. 

“Fuck,” Mingi says aloud. This is fucking spooky though. Maybe it’s some internet trend he’s missed? 

_is this like the “would you still date me if i was a worm” thing_ , he messages. 

_You need to spend less time on Twitter and more time on your Physics assignments._

“Lmao,” he says, then blows out an amused huff of hair. This shit is good; it must be Yunho himself doing it. Kind of sophisticated for Yunho. Mingi is impressed. 

_The answer to number nine is 25,657 miles per hour, by the way._

Mingi actually takes a second to open his Notes app and record that, because his Physics grade is hovering in the low seventies right now and he could use any help he can get. Then he opens the goth app back up and considers what to answer, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he thinks. If this is going to go on Yunho’s TikTok, he should at least play along a little. 

_so whats in it for me?_

_We are able to offer you compensation for your assistance. $50,000 USD, half when you agree and half when we have accomplished our objective and no longer need your assistance._

_Imma bounce this ass for a rich-ass…_ Mingi thinks. He texts back, _how do i know this is real?_

He settles back onto his bed, wondering what Yunho’s going to send next. Maybe he should request 50k on Venmo as a joke. Haha. Yunho barely has enough money for take-out, let alone 50 fucking thousand. If he wanted Mingi to believe this, he should’ve offered access to his ex’s Netflix account or a subsidized snack box subscription. 

Mingi’s anticipation takes a slight detour when he gets a pop-up from his banking app. Which is never a good sign, and always a mood-killer. He opens it, already frowning.

Then he sits the fuck up, eyes bulging like an anime character, squeezing the phone in his hand as he peers closely at the screen. 

He just got $10,000 deposited into his account, and that’s definitely not from lifeguarding.

When the notification from TimeOut appears he opens it as fast as he can, thumb trembling.

_This is an advance on the $50,000. Is this sufficiently “real”?_

Mingi’s heart is pounding. He pulls up the banking app window and checks the transactions again. Yes, that is 10k, deposited one minute ago, bringing his total balance from around $35 to _10,035_ , more money than he’s ever had there in his entire life. 

“What the fuck,” he says, emphatically.

So this is. Real? Is it real? Can someone fake a bank deposit? 

Mingi doesn’t think so. And even if it’s fake, he’s not fucking with any kind of practical joke that can simulate _that_. Nope. Nuh-uh. This is not happening, he’s not fucking with this anymore, Yunho or whoever be damned. 

_look, i don’t know if this is real or not, but you can take the money back,_ he types, thumbs flying. And then, to make sure his intention comes across clearly, _i’m not interested, sorry, find someone else._

The text disappears in five seconds, just like the others. He places the phone next to him on the mattress, his breathing shallow. God, whoever’s behind this is a fucking bitch. Mingi’s not going to be able to sleep for the next week, goddamn, let alone beat off. Weh. 

He chances a look at the phone, breath held in his throat. 

Shit — they’ve texted him again. _Open the first email in your drafts folder._

It takes him a sec to find the folder; he doesn’t think he’s ever opened drafts in the entirety of his email-enabled life. Once he does, he sees— 

Shit shit _shit_. No. Jesus Christ this is bad. _This is so bad,_ Mingi thinks, feeling lightheaded as he scrolls through the images contained in the email. 

Dick pics — three, actually, and all of him and his penis. One from when he was eighteen, when his acne was super bad and his self esteem was below sea-level. The angle’s all fucked up so his dick looks tiny. The second photo, he took in a bathroom stall during a trip to some museum, when a girl he’d been messaging with on Tinder asked for nudes. Third was just last _week_ ; he’d taken it in bed, feeling himself while waiting for xvideos to buffer. 

The last two are the worst. 

One that he’d taken with the self-timer, him from behind, kneeling on his hands and knees to show the dildo he’d stuffed into his ass. His head peeking out from the side to make sure the flash went off. _Stupid_. 

Another pic is a snapchat he’d sent to this dude he’d added from Grindr, a selfie of him biting his lip and gripping his erection through his boxers, with the caption _how would this feel in your ass_. He cringes. He doesn’t even have that much sex, and he sure as hell doesn’t send a lot of these types of pictures to anyone, but if anyone saw them all together he’d look like the biggest, grossest nympho in the entire city.

God fucking damn, he’s so stupid, his mother warned him about internet predators but Mingi never thought anyone would find this shit. He’s literally nobody, he never expected anyone to have a _reason_ to find his dumb horny pics. His dumb _gay_ horny pics. Which would out him as bisexual. If they were shared. 

He feels like he’s going to throw up. 

The phone shakes in his hand when he picks it up. _please please don’t send those to anyone, i’m literally begging you, please don’t send them_.

The response comes quickly. _Please don’t be alarmed, Mingi. I have no intention of sending these images to anyone if you agree to assist us._

Mingi’s a shitty person but the first feeling that washes through him is relief. He’s glad that these people aren’t going to out him as a mostly-gay pervert to everyone he’s ever met. He’s happy because a few vain indiscretions aren’t gonna ruin his entire life, his degree, his friendships, his family, probably his job, too. 

He’s being selfish, though. _if you agree to assist us_ — who the hell knows what that could mean? These people could be drug lords, or pimps, or dirty cops, or some kind of — _human traffickers_ , and Mingi has to — 

_Okay,_ he thinks. _Okay, breathe. One step at a time_. 

_what do you want me to do?_ he types, nauseated.

_Go outside and text me once you’re out. I’ll call you._

Oh fuck shit. Mingi reads the message twice, staring at it until it disappears. Then he realizes he’s gotta go, and jumps up to pull on sweatpants and his Adidas slides. His roommate’s away, traveling, but he locks the door behind him anyway, still fucking spooked. He feels like he’s being watched as he rides the elevator down to the ground floor. 

It’s around nine at night, and there aren’t many people in the dusty community garden outside his apartment. He sits down on a bench and then stands right back up because he’s hella nervous, so much that he’s sweating even though it’s late November. 

_i’m outside_

His phone lights up almost instantly — call from: _unknown_. 

When Mingi picks up he doesn’t say anything. For a second he just hears static, and then:

“Hello, Mingi.” 

The voice sounds like an old white lady’s, but it’s robotic, like the boomer version of Siri. Unexpected. Not not spooky.

“Hello,” he whispers, and can’t stop himself from looking around guiltily to see if anyone can hear him. “Is this—are you the person I’ve been talking to?” 

“Yes, I am. Are you feeling alright, Mingi?” 

He wishes they would stop saying his name. It sounds creepy, especially in that automated robot voice. Also, what the fuck, of course he’s not feeling alright. “Could be better,” he manages, only a bit hysterical. 

“I apologize for any discomfort. The images will not be shared, and the offer of compensation still stands, should you choose to assist us,” the voice says. 

“Okay?” Mingi says after a second, because it seems like they’re not going to say anything more. 

“Do you choose to assist us, Mingi?”

Mingi kicks at the big rock sitting on the edge of the grass. “Not like I have much choice,” he says, and can’t stop himself from sounding annoyed. _Great move, getting sassy with the AI that’s trying to blackmail you._ “I mean. Look, I just,” and he swallows, feeling the lingering desperation from before, “I'll do what you want. I just don’t want to hurt anyone. Or be a part of anything that hurts people.”

The robot voice is silent for a few seconds. “You won’t have to hurt anyone, Mingi. You and those close to you will not be in any danger, as long as you follow our instructions exactly. As I said before, I represent an organization that handles potentially criminal situations — not to commit crimes, but to prevent them. We help people. And you are in a position to help us, Mingi.”

He hesitates. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” 

“You don’t,” the voice says. “I can’t share any more information until you agree to provide assistance. But I assure you, Mingi, that everything I’ve said is true.”

 _Wow, thanks,_ Mingi wants to say. _I’ve always dreamed of making sinister promises to a shadow organization via the Karen of AIs._

“Okay, fine,” he says instead. It feels pretty anticlimactic. He’s just sworn his life away (basically) to strangers in the same way he’d respond to his mom telling him he needs to call his grandma more often. “So what happens next?” 

“I’m glad to hear you’ve accepted,” the voice says. “Next, we need to meet.”

“Meet?” Mingi says loudly, and then hunches down, looking around to see if he’s disturbed any local wildlife. “Like, in person?”

“In person. I can’t share any more information over the phone.”

Oh Jesus, he’s definitely going to be murdered. Might as well write his will now. 

It’s almost as if the voice hears him start to hyperventilate, because it says, “Mingi, please don’t be alarmed. We should meet in a public place and discuss your role. I have no intention of harming you or anyone else.”

“Oh, worm?” Mingi says, still hyperventilating. 

He could swear he hears a robotic _sigh_ from the phone, which is probably just static. “Please choose a cafe you would normally visit. One that is often busy, preferably.”

“Uh.” Mingi thinks. “There’s a Starbucks downtown, next to the public library. It gets pretty busy,” — during the week, when all the rich kids remember they’re in college to get a degree, not to ingest disturbing amounts of White Claw at the house of some dude whose uncle probably committed a war crime, or works for an oil company. That’s not actually important to tell the possibly evil robot/spy/vigilante on the line, though. “Yeah, does that work?”

“That’s appropriate,” the voice confirms. “Can you meet me there tomorrow at 2pm?”

“Tomorrow at 2pm,” Mingi repeats. That’s soon. That’s tomorrow. He can, actually, do that, if his heart doesn’t yeet right out of his damn chest before then. “Yeah, I can meet you then.”

“Good,” the voice says. “And Mingi, before we end this call, I’ll give you a last warning: if you share any part of what has happened tonight with anyone — friends, family, coworkers, even the police — we will have no choice but to share the images you saw earlier with one hundred of your closest contacts.” 

Mingi sits down on the bench, feeling cold seep through him that has nothing to do with him wearing only a T-shirt. He stays silent for a while, until the voice prompts, “Do you understand, Mingi?”

“Yeah,” he forces out, past the tightness in his throat, “yeah, I got it.” 

“Good. Goodbye, Mingi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Mingi sits up, alarmed. “Wait, how am I supposed to know what you look like —” but the line beeps, and when he takes the phone away from his ear, the call’s been ended. 

_Fuck._

He slumps back, dropping his phone into his lap. _This is insane,_ he thinks. This is literally out of some Bond movie — the Wal-Mart version of a Bond movie, where he’s Bond and there’s no hot but objectified assassin woman who’ll seduce him in a steamy shower scene, and also he’s in way over his head and wants to throw up every two seconds. 

It’s fine. _It’s fine_ , Mingi tells himself, once he’s made it back to his bed, snuggling deep under the covers despite knowing there’s no way he’s sleeping tonight. They said they were the good guys, right? Well, not exactly the good guys, but like. The good-ish guys? 

_Could be a good band name,_ he thinks. 

______________________________________________________

The Starbucks is actually very busy when he gets there. He’s early, arriving sweaty — no way he could afford to live downtown, so it’s like a 25 minute bike ride — and he's just in time to drop his backpack onto the one free table near the bathroom. 

It’s only 1:40, so he gets in line and spends the entire time having a Socrates-level internal debate about what to order. Latte makes him seem weak — too much milk; Mingi’s read enough Reddit threads to know, albeit toxically, that taking your coffee black makes you seem tough. Mingi hates black coffee, though. He hates all coffee. A cappuccino might work, but he’s pretty sure that has milk too. 

Anyway, who’s he trying to impress? The person who’s seen his ass _and_ his penis? Both of which are fine; he knows his dick is above average, and he’s gotten some good feedback on his ass from all genders, but he’s nothing mind-blowing — 

He decides to get a cappuccino. 

Drink sitting on the table, he watches the stream of soccer moms and college kids and normal people walk through. Then that starts to feel creepy, and, if anyone, _he’s_ not the creep in this particular context, so he scrolls aimlessly through Instagram, checks Tinder, Snapchat, Twitter. 

“Mind if I sit here?” someone says, knocking him out of some very intense perusal of x-rated Naruto fanart. 

Mingi’s head jerks up, body going super tense. Then he relaxes. 

It’s one of the college kids, the artsy ones — bleached blonde hair, beanie, clothes that look thrifted but probably cost what Mingi makes in a year. Converse. He’s really cute, Mingi notices, and why does God allow a cute guy to ask to sit with him _only_ when He’s just allowed him to be blackmailed by (potentially) super evil spy hackers? 

“Sorry,” Mingi says, turning his phone screen off. “I know it’s busy, but I’m actually waiting for someone.”

The guy smiles, and damn, what a smile. It takes up his whole face. It’s fatally adorable. Maybe Mingi should ask for his number, actually — he’s got some time, it’s only just hit two — 

Two o’clock p.m. 

Mingi glances at his phone, which is off, and then back up at the guy. 

“Um,” he says. 

The smile gets wider. “Hi, Mingi,” the guy says. 

_Don’t say it, don’t fucking say it_ — “It’s you,” Mingi says stupidly. “You’re the — the Siri voice.”

At that, the guy — the _Karen AI_ — tilts his head, projecting confusion. “We talked last night?” 

Mingi stares at him, mouth open. _You’ve seen my dick,_ he thinks, no thoughts head empty. _You’ve seen my ass, also you’re blackmailing me, Jesus fucking Christ what the hell_. 

“So can I sit?” The guy sounds amused, and his smile has shrunk from full teeth to just a curve of his lips, which is somehow worse. 

“Yeah! Be my guest,” Mingi says, and watches as the guy slings his backpack over the back of the chair before sliding into it. Mingi realizes he’s still gaping at him and closes his mouth with an audible clack. “So. So, you’re really — that was you?” 

“It was me,” the guy says. “You seem surprised.”

“I mean, I guess I was expecting,” an old British guy with a mustache, “ — um. Something different.” 

“The voice can be a little misleading,” the guy says, smiling again. 

It’s the smile that makes him go a little crazy, crazy enough to forget he’s talking to a member of a sinister shadow organization and ask: “So what’s your name?” 

The guy blinks. “You can call me HJ,” he says. 

It’s not really an acronym that flows off the tongue, but Mingi was the one stupid enough to ask a guy who’d sent him disappearing texts and spoke to him in a robot voice for his name. So, probably it’s what he deserves. 

“Cool, HJ,” Mingi says, doing nothing to cease acting stupid. What the fuck is the script for this kind of situation? “So, should we get down to business?” 

“We should,” HJ says. And then he leans forward, far enough that Mingi fights the urge to sit back, and his eyes are warm and serious. “Also, I wanted to apologize for the photo thing. I know it must have caused a lot of — discomfort, given your situation, and I wish I hadn’t had to upset you like that.” 

His situation, Mingi thinks, and then realizes, _oh_. HJ knows he isn’t out. He doesn’t know why that’s surprising; clearly HJ hacked the shit out of everything he’s ever done, probably knows more about him than anyone ever has, even — especially — his mom. Also he’s not immune to the sincerity in HJ’s deep brown eyes. He seems like he actually means what he said. 

_Also he’s blackmailing you._ “Thanks,” Mingi says, and just barely manages to not make it a question. 

That seems to satisfy HJ, at least. He sits back and reaches around to his backpack to pull out a thick notebook, the cheap five-subject kind you can buy at CVS. Damn, he’s really put a lot of effort into this whole college kid cover. Mingi takes a second to be impressed. 

“Please keep quiet and do not say any names,” HJ warns, and then he opens to the first page. “This is the target of our operation,” he says, pointing to the central figure in a grainy black and white photo that looks like it was taken in a restaurant. 

Mingi isn’t paying much attention to the surroundings, though. “That’s my roommate,” he says, a bit dazed. “That’s —”

“No names, please,” HJ cuts him off gently. He closes the notebook. “I hope this explains why we contacted you for this particular case.” 

_Um, actually, no, it doesn’t explain anything!_

“You want to kill my roommate?” Mingi asks, voice rising squeakily. “Wait, do you want _me_ to kill my roommate?” _Oh god_ , he adds internally. _Oh my god_.

“No, wait — Mingi, what?” HJ’s brow is wrinkled, and he looks and sounds so much like Yunho that Mingi actually snaps out of his impending doom protocol. “Nobody’s killing anyone,” HJ says firmly, leaning forward again. 

He has one of those reassuring voices, the kind that makes Mingi think of hammocks and warm fires. “Okay,” Mingi says, and he takes a sip of his cappuccino because he’s just remembered it was there, undrunk and yeah, pretty cold now. Gross. He makes a face as he sets it down. “So no killing. What do I have to do to him, then?”

He’s sure he’s said something wrong because HJ just stares at him for a good while. “We need your help finding evidence on him,” HJ says at last. “He’s involved in drug trafficking, large scale — potentially animal trafficking, endangered species, that kind of thing.” His eyes are very intent as he looks at Mingi. “You don’t know him very well, right?”

“I met him through a friend of a friend,” Mingi says. 

HJ nods. “And you’ve been living with him for how long?” 

“Uh…” Mingi wracks his poor undersized brain. He’s 20 now, so that means... “About a year? I think I moved in at the beginning of last year.”

HJ’s watching him closely, and Mingi has literally no sense of self preservation but half of him is still thinking about how a bangin’ hot dude his age has seen his genitals, and that half is itching to ask him what he thought about it. “You can ask questions if you have them,” HJ offers, and Mingi almost laughs aloud. 

“I guess I’m just a little confused,” he says, because that’s true. “Like, why would an international drug and animal dealer live in an $700 a month two-bed one-bath? With me? I’m like,” he attempts to convey his meaning with a large sweep of his hand around his general body, “a nobody. I’m normal.” 

“That’s a reasonable question,” HJ tells him. “We think it’s an attempt to build a believable cover. You know him as someone who works in sales for a fintech company, right?” At Mingi’s nod, he continues, “That explains his travel. He doesn’t operate locally, aside from —” and then he stops, frowning. “Anyway. Can’t talk about it much here.” 

“Do you really think he could be, like, tracking me?” Mingi asks, a knot in his stomach. “And my phone — you made everything disappear, and the voice, and the threats —” 

“It’s just a precaution we take,” HJ says, cutting off his word-vomit. “We think the apartment is bugged, probably. That’s why I asked you to come outside. But the bugging is just a precaution on his part, too; not because he thinks you’re a threat. He thinks you’re just what you said. Normal. Harmless.”

Mingi squeezes his eyes shut like it’ll enable him to see this shit clearly. “So what exactly do you all want with me, then?”

HJ sits back, steeples his hands into a triangle. He has really small hands, Mingi notices absurdly. Like Mingi could hold them both in one of his own hands. “We want evidence,” HJ says, drawing Mingi’s eyes off his hands and he hopes he wasn’t staring, that would be embarrassing. “I need access to your apartment to place some monitoring devices.”

“You want to _bug_ my apartment?” 

“Audio and video, yes,” HJ confirms. “Sooner rather than later, ideally.”

“He said he’d be away for two weeks — that was last week.” Mingi thinks out loud, “Was it Monday that he left? I was in class when he texted me — I’ll check,” he says, grabbing his phone.

HJ stops him _with a hand on his wrist_. “Already looked,” he says, almost sheepishly, and then withdraws his hand. 

Mingi is a dramatic hoe but he swears he can still feel the place where HJ’s fingers touched his skin. 

“He’ll be back on the fourteenth,” HJ continues. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I’m — yeah?” 

“Good.” HJ flashes him a quick smile. _Oh god._ “I’ll have to come into the apartment with you,” he says. 

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Mingi says, ignoring the inevitable torture that will be him co-existing with HJ meters away from where he masturbates. _He’s seen your dick, please chill,_ internal Mingi reminds him. “The security guard will ask you to sign in as a guest, though.”

HJ nods. “Mingi, we’re going to have to take additional precautions,” he says, significantly, with a meaningful press of his eyes. Mingi stares dumbly at him. 

“What does that mean, uh, exactly?” 

“It means we’re going to have to construct a believable cover of our own.” 

“Oh.” Mingi nods, feeling more confident in his grasp of Whatever the Hell Is Happening. “So, we should pretend to be friends? Maybe, like, working on a project together?” 

“You’re on the right track,” HJ replies, “but it wouldn’t stand up to a test. I’m not registered as a student, nobody else knows me, and how many friends have you brought over to the apartment since moving in?”

“Oh,” Mingi says, this time a little crestfallen. 

“It wasn’t a bad idea,” HJ says gently. “I was thinking more along the lines of, how many people have you brought over to sleep with?”

Mingi makes a sound similar to how he splutters when he drinks too-hot liquid. “Not that many,” he manages. “But more than the friends, yeah, that’s definitely true. Um,” he takes the great brave leap of meeting HJ’s eyes again, “So. We’d be — pretending to bang?”

“We’d meet at a bar,” HJ says, graciously ignoring Mingi’s impression of a thirteen year old boy. “Flirt, drink, etc, and then we’ll order a ride home — “ Mingi holds back a wince, because he hopes HJ’s crime-fighting credit card is paying for that — “and, as you said, “pretend to bang” for a while before I can get to work.”

“Yeah, that’s a good plan,” Mingi says. His brain is thinking, _what if we bang for real before you bug my apartment to spy on my international criminal roommate?_ His brain needs to shut the fuck up. “You said tomorrow? I get off work at eight. We could meet around nine, nine-thirty.”

“Good.” HJ slides the notebook back into his bag. Then he nods at Mingi’s coffee. “Want another of those? It’s on me,” he says, again with that sheepish look, “My fault it got cold anyway.”

“Thanks, I’m good.” _I actually hate coffee,_ Mingi wants to say, but that would be so ridiculous it would actually hurt him physically to utter it.

HJ shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and stands to slide the backpack on. He’s pretty short, Mingi realizes, at least shorter than Mingi, he’s guessing. HJ stops him when he tries to stand, too. “We shouldn’t leave together,” he explains. “If you could stick around for a few minutes. Sorry, I know it’s inconvenient.”

“No worries,” Mingi says. The only thing that’s inconvenient is that he’s not going to know immediately how much of a height difference there is between them. Ah well. “Nice to meet you, HJ,” he adds, because the stupid train just doesn’t stop. 

He’s dangerous and Mingi still isn’t sure if he’s a good person, or working for good people, and he’s _not Mingi’s friend or potential friend at all_ , but it’s hard to remember any of those things when HJ gifts him with another smile and says, “You too, Mingi,” before making his way out of the cafe. 

Oh shit shit shit. Yunho’s going to _kill_ him, he thinks, and then he remembers he can’t fucking tell Yunho anything. 

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

Mingi is absolutely doing the most at work the next day. 

**do·ing the most**  
/ˈdo͞oiNG T͟Hē mōst/  
_verbal phrase_  
1\. ~~achieving or completing the greatest in amount or degree~~. zoned the fuck out re: the year’s worth of toilet paper he’s shared with a Real Criminal; and how tonight he has a not-date with a secret agent who(m?) he’d happily let stab him; also he needs to call his mom and empty the cum tissues out of his trashcan before said secret agent comes over tonight — 

Any one of the people in the pool could full-on drown and greet Satan in Hell, and Mingi wouldn’t notice at all. 

That’s maybe kind of bad. 

However, no one drowns before his next break! Which is lit and rad because it would really complicate his plans for the day as well as possibly send him to jail. 

He’s working on the same problem set from the day before, and he must be really fucked up because when Hot Top Coworker asks him about it, he just mumbles some nonsense and waves them off. 

With number nine out of the way — the answer _was_ 25,567 miles per hour, Mingi had realized after some intensive backwards working — he’s close to being done with it. Which is good, because most of his brain is stuck on the secret mission/operation he’s going to be a part of in, like, three hours. Also fuck physics. 

His phone buzzes ten minutes into the break. 

It’s the little skull clock — message from _unknown_. Mingi moves to open it so fast his phone almost clatters onto the ground. 

_Hi, Mingi. How are you?_

It’s HJ. Gotta be, right? Mingi breathes out deeply. _hello! im good, im on my break, hbu?_

 _Is anyone with you?_ HJ texts. 

_just my coworker_. Mingi glances over at them, but they’re faced away from him, typing something spread-sheety on the computer.

_Alright. I want to give you some information in preparation for tonight. I would’ve preferred to talk on the phone, as it’s a significant amount of information, but I’ll text you. Are you able to concentrate on these messages for the next five minutes?_

_anything for you, daddy,_ is what he’d like to reply — as a joke, of course! 

He takes a second to imagine how HJ would react to that. Maybe he’d smile a little, tell Mingi how much of a fool he is, in a fond and exasperated way. 

In reality sending that would be dumb as rocks. HJ would probably softblock him right then and there, leaving him to be chomped to death by his roommate’s illegal wild animal collection. 

_sure, ive got ten minutes left_ , he sends. 

_Good._

He’s really got to stop doing that. Mingi’s such a dumb brat; his cock reads way too much into that word. 

_I’ll meet you at the Hive tonight at 9:30. I believe you’ve been there before. When you arrive, text me and wait by the bar. I’ll arrive a few minutes later. The scenario should play out as if we met by chance yesterday at Starbucks, and you asked me to go out tonight._

The tiny Yunho on Mingi’s shoulder is writhing in hysterical laughter at the “you asked me out” thing. Which Mingi does not appreciate much — he can ask people out! He just. Doesn’t. People are scary and often mean. 

_We’ll head out after a few drinks. When we arrive at the apartment, I’ll slip you an earpiece that my colleague will use to communicate with us. They’ll be scanning the apartment for monitoring systems so we know what we’re dealing with. It’s important to note, Mingi, that while my colleague can identify any existing devices, we can’t risk attempting to shut them down, as it could alert the target to the operation. Because we can't shut them down, we’ll need to maintain the cover to ensure the monitors do not pick up anything suspicious. Good so far?_

_yes!_ Mingi replies. Whew boy, this is actually happening. It’s kind of cool. He’s gonna get an earpiece, like a real spy, damn. 

_Good._ No! _Our geospatial scans showed that the bathroom of the apartment is directly across from your roommate’s bedroom. Can you confirm this?_

_yeah that’s true_

_Okay. When we arrive, I’ll release our monitoring devices — my colleague will be able to control them and place them in the most advantageous location. Later on, I’ll ask to use the bathroom and then release a final device in front of your roommate’s door, which my colleague will send inside the room. Good?_

_damn, that’s so cool_ , Mingi texts back, unable to stop himself. He may have gone to the Spy Museum too much as a child, but is he really expected to not be impressed by this? It’s literally a Bond movie. Bit unprofesh on his part, though. Yikes. 

The next text takes a sliver of a second longer to arrive than the others. _Thanks._

Mingi whooshes a tiny sigh of relief. 

_After my colleague has confirmed the placement of the initial devices, we’ll head to your room to simulate sex._

Mingi aggressively unwhooshes the sigh of relief. _DAMN THATS SO COOL_ his inner self says. 

He does not send that. 

HJ double texts before he can choose between responding and eating his phone. 

_Mingi, another important note: Depending on the capabilities of the existing monitoring system, we may be compelled to do more than simply simulate sex in order to maintain the cover._

Mingi squints at the text. HJ must have extended the time limit on these texts, because they linger a lot longer than the ones before, thank God. But he’s still lost after ten seconds of staring at the words. 

_uh….. sorry, what do you mean?_

Another longer-than-normal pause that Mingi swears he’s not imagining. Then: 

_If your room is not bugged, we won’t have to do much at all. If it contains audio recorders, we’ll need to make believable sounds. If — and this seems unlikely — it contains video-enabled devices, we may have to engage in real sexual acts; realistically, anything up to and/or including oral sex._

_Nuh?_ Mingi’s throat constricts in some weird Pavlovian response. He blinks a few times, then rereads the text quickly, eyes catching on “real sexual acts” and “oral sex.” 

Another text appears. _I understand the last scenario would be uncomfortable and far from ideal. But it would be the best way to maintain verisimilitude and ensure your safety as well as that of the operation._

(Not really related, but Mingi kind of loves how HJ doesn’t dumb down what he says for Mingi. Verisimilitude? Fucking incredible. It’s as if HJ hasn’t written him off as a true idiot based on how he behaves, looks, speaks, and generally is, which is how 99% of people usually treat Mingi, and he’s not too salty about it anymore because he has friends now, but like. HJ is an actual spy and he seems to — what’s the word? Respect Mingi. As a human person.) 

Idk man, feels nice.

_Mingi?_

Oh shit. _ah sorry was thinking_ , Ming types quickly, then almost hits his head on the table. _i mean i get it, if we need to do that, that’s fine with me_. And then a thought occurs to him, and he frowns. _what abt u? are u cool with that?_

This time a whole minute passes before Mingi gets a response. He’s only got a couple minutes left in his shift; he’s biting his nails and refreshing the dumb app as he waits. 

_It’s fine with me, Mingi. I’ve done much more unpalatable things in this line of work._

Ha ha! _was that a pun_ , Mingi texts, delighted. _bc of like, the oral?_

That was probably not a good idea. Mingi’s delight wilts as quickly as it bloomed, and he speeds quickly towards a big yike. But then he receives:

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Oh my god,” Mingi says in disbelief. He sits back and then realizes his coworker is looking at him in concern. “Nothing! Sorry,” he reassures them, and they go back to the computer. 

Exactly how thirsty for love and human connection and ass do you have to be to fall in love with someone you a) met once and b) (!!!!) is blackmailing you with your sexuality and c) has probably hurt (bad) people. Oh no, that’s not right, the thought of HJ hurting people is _hot as shit_. 

_That’s pathetic,_ his inner self tells him. _Dude’s just doing his job, and his job just happens to be you. Please don’t 500 Days of Summer this._

Then the shruggy boi text disappears, and so does the rest of Mingi’s break, RIP.

___________________

Mingi almost gets whacked by like four cars as he bikes home. Because the world does not appreciate him and also he forgot his glasses today, so he can’t see turn signals that well and, well, it’s dark outside. 

His manager had slid into the pool at 7:58 to chat about the holiday shift schedule. 7:58. And the dude is a talker — Mingi had only managed to escape by agreeing to work Christmas Eve day, which means his mom’s going to knife him slowly, but whatever. 

He’s still running hella late by the time he reaches his apartment. He showers at “gotta nut ASAP” speed — two-point-five minutes! — and then stands, dripping in his towel, as he surveys his room and realizes it’s a fuckin’ _mess_. 

Shit. Gotta fix that. 

At 2x speed, he empties the trash can, combs his hair, throws the pile of clothes on his bed into the closet, and makes his bed. Then he realizes he has almost zero clean clothes, because it’s been laundry day for almost two weeks now. Leaving him with: black sweatpants that are a little too big and a black sweatshirt that’s _also_ too big. Damn, he will be serving looks tonight. 

Anyway, it’s way past time to go — it’s already 9:30, fuck, Mingi should’ve told HJ he’s never been on time before even if his life depended on it, which he guesses it kind of does now. Proves his point, if anything. 

With one last glance around his room, Mingi shrugs on his big purple coat to ward off the chill and starts the walk to the Hive. 

He doesn’t exactly want to know how HJ knew he’d been there before. Haha, that’s a whole ass lie: thinking about HJ stalking the fuck out of him makes him feel all warm and toasty inside. It’s fucked up and 100% not his fault. If someone had just taken one for the team and paid him some attention, maybe he wouldn’t be this flattered by gross violations of his privacy.

 _im here, sorry im late_ , Mingi texts once he’s arrived. 

He waits a while but no response. Cool. He slides his phone into his pocket and makes his way over to the bar. It’s a Wednesday, so it’s not too busy, but he still lingers awkwardly, waiting for the right moment to catch the bartender’s eye. He feels super fucking awkward and oversized and generally useless. 

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, jolting him upright. 

“Uh,” Mingi says, somehow surprised by the question. “Could I get a Heineken, please?” 

“Going to need to see some ID,” the bartender says, looking at him with a little eye smile.

And there Mingi was, thinking the puffy purple coat would age him up. “Yeah, of course,” he says, then fishes around for his wallet and flicks through all of his cards with an increasing feeling of _ruh roh_. Ugh. He looks up. "On second thought, a coke’s fine.” 

The eye smile crinkles deeper. “Sounds good. You want to start a tab?” 

“Sure,” Mingi says. At least he has his debit card, flush with the $$$ HJ had given him. 

For the next few minutes, Mingi sits at the bar sipping his coke and watching the college basketball game on the bar TV. He wonders, intermittently, if people are wondering what he’s doing there, drinking coke alone at a bar on a Wednesday night, watching basketball like it’s some kind of alien mating ritual. 

Then he hears “Hi, Mingi,” from behind him, and feels a light tap on his shoulder that he turns to follow.

Oh _shit_. Mingi’s mouth is open, he can feel it, but his brain is so preoccupied with rerouting blood to his dick that he can’t close it. 

“Hey,” he says. “Hi. That’s a nice jacket,” — _a nice jacket?_ Well, it is. The whole outfit is rather fucking nice. HJ must have added Mingi’s porn history and celebrities he follows on instagram to the list of Mingi stalking research, not that his clothing choice has anything to do with Mingi, obviously, but just. Wow. 

Mingi hugely appreciates the way HJ’s pants fit around his waist. He wants to take his belt off with his _teeth._

“Thanks.” HJ’s smiling. Is he wearing makeup? He looks like he’s wearing something on his eyes. They look dark and smoky. Mingi is sweating too much. “You dressed up,” HJ continues, looking Mingi up and down, sparkles in his eyes. 

“Haha,” Mingi says, keeping his eyes firmly on HJ’s right ear. Is no one witnessing the homicide being committed against him right now? “I was in a rush! Also, athleisure is in style right now. In case you didn’t know.”

“Is that right,” HJ says, sparkling some more, and then he takes pity on Mingi and slides onto the barstool beside him. He nods at Mingi’s glass. “What are you drinking?” 

“Coke.” Mingi grimaces. “Forgot my fake.”

“You really were in a rush. Long day?”

“The longest.” It’s easier like this, when they’re side by side and Mingi doesn’t have to make as much eye contact. He puffs his cheeks out like a blowfish, then lets the air out with a pop. “I got press-ganged into taking a bunch of holiday shifts.”

“That’s unfortunate,” HJ says easily. Then he hums. “I’ve heard the electricity in pool facilities gets unreliable during the winter. Would you be able to work if the power grid broke?”

Mingi frowns. “I, uh. No? But the power’s never gone out be—” 

HJ’s smiling again. 

“ — before,” he finishes. “Oh. Would you, like. Can you do that?”

“I can absolutely do that,” HJ says. “If you want.” 

That’s actually really sweet. Mingi is really fucked in the head, he thinks, a weird feeling in his stomach as he watches HJ turn away to order some kind of specialty cocktail. 

“I’m surprised you’re taking this so well,” HJ says when he turns back. _I can take a lot well!_ Mingi thinks, loudly inside his brain. “As first dates go, I know it’s a lot to handle.” 

His eyes tell Mingi that by “first date” he actually means “being hacked and approached to participate in a sting operation.” Mingi is great at reading HJ’s eyes and general subtext.

“Yeah, well. I’m pretty good at going with the flow. And you made a compelling case.”

“Glad to hear it. Maybe you can tell my boss that. Oh, thanks so much,” HJ says to the bartender, receiving his frankly homosexual drink, which he sips through a little straw. 

Mingi is suddenly very interested in the floor. 

“So, how old are you?” he asks, once he remembers he knows how to have a conversation. "Are you really over 21?"

When HJ nods, Mingi realizes he has no ability to tell whether it’s true. Maybe his face shows some of that doubt, because HJ says, “No, I really am. Turned 21 in November. I have such a baby face, and I’m short, so people always think I’m under eighteen.”

“You can get lots of discounts, though,” Mingi says, encouraging. When HJ’s face scrunches up into a laugh he continues, only half joking, “No, really. You can order kids meals at most franchise restaurants.” 

“What’s your favorite kids meal?” 

“Dino chicken tenders,” Mingi says. He probably should have hesitated more, in retrospect.

“That’s a good one,” HJ says. “I think mine would be the pancakes with the bacon smiley face.” 

“We should’ve gone to iHop instead of a bar,” Mingi says, fully meaning it.

HJ’s smile is soft. “I’ll take that into consideration for next time,” he says.

 _Next time_. It kind of punctures Mingi’s happy little groove, actually. Because there isn’t going to be a next time, because this isn’t a real date. People like HJ don’t date people like him, and he needs to stop being _stupid_.

Mingi drops his gaze and takes a gulp of his coke. _Pull it together, dude_.

“How did you end up working at the pool, anyway?” HJ asks him, light like nothing happened. Bless him, what an angel. 

It gets easier after that. Mingi launches into his epic origin story of competitive swimming, his training to become the fastest butterflier in the fourteen-and-under age group, and his subsequent fall from grace in the swimming world due to failing calculus in high school and his mom forcing him to give up the team in favor of math tutoring and SAT prep class. 

It’s easy to talk to HJ, is the thing. It’s easy to talk to HJ because he keeps laughing at the stupid shit Mingi says, and making little wry comments and asking questions to keep the conversation flowing. 

Mingi even slips a few questions of his own in, which is how he learns — assuming any of it’s true — that HJ started “coding” when he was seven, obsessed with making a robot that could find his missing dog, and that his parents both passed away when he was young, and that he loves tie-dyeing and bedazzling things. “You’re absolutely bedazzling me,” Mingi says, batting his eyelashes, and HJ snort-laughs right into his pink tequila. 

All in all they’re doing a great job at faking a first date. It’s the best date, fake or real, that Mingi’s ever been on, which again is quite tragic. (Ir)regardless, Mingi’s feeling pretty good about the whole situation when, after a while, HJ checks his watch. “Wow, it’s late,” he says. 

Oh, right. The plan. “You’re right,” Mingi replies. _This is it!_ internal Mingi says. _Shoot your fake shot, boy!_ “Do you want to come back to my place?” he asks, feeling nervous for absolutely no reason. “Unless you’re busy, which is cool, we could — “

“I’d love to come back to yours,” HJ cuts him off, and that’s his hand on Mingi’s arm, damn, it looks really good there, light pressure as HJ looks at him intently.

It’s all literally fake and Mingi still feels like he’s going to fall right off this wobbly barstool. 

“Great! It’s like a ten minute walk,” he says. 

HJ takes his hand away, but he’s smiling again. “I’m getting a Lyft,” he informs Mingi.

“Great! Yes. A Lyft. That’s faster.” 

“Indeed,” HJ says, with crinkly eyes, and just like that, Mingi’s a fucking homosexual. 

Faster means, unfortunately, that they’re standing outside his apartment building far more quickly than any human person could prepare for. HJ slips his hand into Mingi’s, making him jump five feet in the air like a scared cat, until he realizes there’s a small round thing in his hand and HJ’s hand is no longer there. 

The earpiece. It looks like a pretty average airpod to him. Mingi positions it in his eardrum with a hand that’s still tingling from where HJ touched him. 

_Mingi, welcome to Alpha Four,_ someone says via the earpiece, a deep voice that comes through with surprising clarity. Mingi looks to the side and HJ must have an earpiece too, duh — HJ catches his eye and makes a zipper motion around his mouth, throwing away the key. Gotcha. _I’m YeoYeo, by the way. I’ll let you know ASAP what kind of system this dude has got, just hang in there_. Mingi thanks him telepathically. Alpha Four must be the name of their secret organization, huh. 

Then they’re in front of his door. He unlocks it with fingers that tremble just a little. 

“Wow, what a beautiful place,” is what HJ says after they step inside. Mingi goes into Internal Pause, because 1) that's just patently false, and 2) HJ's voice is suddenly saccharine sweet, and it throws Mingi off-balance. HJ glances back at him. “How many guys have you taken back here?” he asks, in the same sickly-sweet tone, and then he comes right up to Mingi and puts his hands on Mingi’s waist, blinking up at him with a tiny smile. 

Scratch that — Mingi is sure no amount of time would be enough for a human to prepare themselves for this. 

“Bluh — uh,” Mingi says, mouth broken again. 

_Looks like there’s three bugs in the living area, one each in the bathroom, kitchen, target’s bedroom, and Mingi’s bedroom_ , YeoYeo says, as HJ stays right where he is, staring into Mingi’s eyes. _Shit, guys._ YeoYeo sighs, and Mingi has to physically force his ears to stop ringing and focus on what he’s saying. _They’re all video._

HJ’s hands tighten on his hips. Then, a second later, they relax again. 

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he says. Mingi is so glad HJ didn’t turn on the flirtiness until they got back here — there’s no chance in hell he would’ve been able to maintain brain function if HJ had acted this way at the bar. “You were all over me at the bar,” HJ continues, pouting a little and swaying into him. “I thought you were going to rip my clothes off as soon as we got in the door.”

“I — yeah.” Mingi blinks, distracted by that image. Then he pulls it together and says, really damn honest, “I want to kiss you.”

“Good,” HJ says, and then he grows two inches and presses their lips together. 

_Hot fucking damn_ , Mingi thinks. His head is swimming. HJ kisses really — hard, aggressive, like he wants to bruise Mingi’s mouth, tongue pushing its way into his mouth all bossy and determined. 

At some point he dares to skate a hand into HJ’s hair. He's not pulling or anything, just feeling the softness of it as HJ makes a mess out of his mouth. He realizes belatedly that HJ has pressed him up against the wall, and he has to suppress a shiver as HJ slides his hands from Mingi’s waist up to his shoulders, leaving prickly trails of heat as he does. 

It’s the messiest kiss Mingi’s ever had, and also the hottest thing that he’s ever experienced.

“Mmm,” HJ hums against his lips. When he draws back, Mingi gets a look at his face — wet mouth, lips stained pink and swollen. His eyes are _heated_. Mingi’s dick is so hard; it twitches as HJ’s gaze drops down to his mouth, which he knows must look sloppy as fuck, the way HJ’s been mauling it. His lower lip feels like it’s just one big hickey, throbbing as if HJ had socked him in the mouth instead of kissed him. 

Mingi’s dick is rock-hard, straining at the waistband of his sweats. 

_Our bugs are done for the kitchen and living space,_ YeoYeo says into Mingi’s ear, making him flinch.

He’d forgotten about YeoYeo. He’d forgotten about the _cover._ Jesus Christ. 

Casting a look past the demonic succubus in front of him, Mingi gathers enough brain cells to wonder where YeoYeo had put the bugs. In his texts, HJ had said he’d “release” them. He must’ve done it while they were making out, somehow. _What a professional,_ Mingi thinks, a mean thought aimed at both his erection and his heart. 

When HJ draws back, he's breathing a little weirdly. _Is he hard at all_ , Mingi wonders, unable to stop himself. 

Wouldn’t matter if he was. He’s just doing his _job_.

HJ takes his hand, smiling that same coy smile from before. “Should we take this to the bedroom?” he asks. 

“Y-yeah, sounds good." Mingi pushes himself up and stumbles; he hadn’t realized how much he’d been using the wall to support his weight. HJ’s other hand comes up to catch his elbow.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just — just lost my balance.” He sucks in a deep breath and mentally squeezes a 45 minute meditation into a single second. Then he leads HJ over to his room. HJ’s still holding his hand — it feels sweaty, though it’s probably Mingi who’s sweating. “Sorry it’s a mess,” he says self-consciously, flicking on the lights. 

“It’s cute,” HJ says, looking around at Mingi’s little trash den. He trails a hand over Mingi’s desk. “IKEA?”

Mingi’s dick is still mostly hard and it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize HJ’s asked him where his _furniture_ is from, which is, wow. “My friend found it on the street,” he says. He’s a tad thrown off by the question, and also by the general mood change: HJ seems less intent on biting him now that they’re in his room, and Mingi would be lying if he’s not physically and mentally confused about everything that’s happening. 

Maybe there’s no bug inside his room, and they’re just gonna chill? But no, YeoYeo had definitely said there was — all video, too…

HJ’s perusing his various knick-knacks and old textbooks and collection of unused hair products. Mingi stands awkwardly by the door, wondering whether his boner is too visible through the sweatpants, and whether HJ would suck on his neck — for the cover, of course _verisimilitude_ — and then HJ looks back at him. The sudden eye contact makes Mingi snap his mouth shut and stand up straighter, like he’s about to do a soldier salute. 

_I’m going to sign off for a while,_ YeoYeo says. _Y’all do your thing; I’ll be back in 20 for the last plant._

Do your thing? 

“Do you have any condoms?” HJ asks, and Mingi was not expecting that at all. 

Okay, so the cover’s a thing, still. _I’ll be back in 20_. _Do your thing_. Mingi feels his cheeks go red, and he can’t honestly tell if he’s excited or terrified. Then, shower thought: Is it wrong that he’s hard? Is HJ expecting him to be all limp and laying back and thinking of England? 

But nah, he said he knew they might have to do actual sex stuff. And he knows Mingi’s into guys. He probably knew Mingi would get hard. 

Mingi is so distracted by all this, he barely notices the tiny throat-slitting gesture HJ’s making, and the insistent, purposeful Look he’s throwing at Mingi. _Oh—kay??_ Is that secret-agent-speak for — what, exactly?

“Condoms? Uh — I don’t think so?” he guesses.

HJ stops making the gesture and gives Mingi a small nod, which means Mingi probably did something right, right? “Aw, that’s such a shame. I don’t fuck without condoms,” HJ explains.

Ah, an out! Very smart. Mingi is definitely _not_ disappointed; his dick is only half-hard now anyway. But what’s he supposed to say now? He stares at HJ, hoping for another clue. 

“Uh, that’s okay — ” 

“ — so we’ll have to do something else with your cock,” HJ tells him, that fucking Cheshire cat grin back on his face. “Can I blow you?” 

Triple yikes!

HJ is the only person who’s ever said “cock,” Mingi decides. He feels his mouth hanging open again. “I — Uh. Huh. Are you sure?”

HJ throws him this roll-y eye look that seems very real. “I’m sure,” he practically purrs, and then he slips off the jean jacket that had made Mingi want to risk it all earlier, revealing a long-sleeved black turtleneck underneath. “Lie on the bed,” HJ tells him, which is smart and time-efficient, because Mingi had been doing his best impression of the confused math meme.

 _If I die,_ he thinks to Yunho, shrugging off his coat and laying his gangly chicken limbs down on his bed, _please know I died happy. Also know that your haircut is ugly_. 

Mingi is, embarrassingly, almost fully hard again when HJ climbs onto the bed and settles between his parted thighs. 

“Lift your hips,” he tells Mingi, weirdly soft. Mingi swallows hard and lets HJ pull his sweatpants down so his dick slips free, standing thick against his stomach, sweatshirt rucked up so HJ can see most of his abdomen. 

Mingi’s biting his lip so hard he’s afraid he’ll draw blood.

“You’re beautiful,” HJ tells him, in that same strange, soft voice, and Mingi can’t look at him, _can't_ watch HJ look at his dick. 

Then his eyes flutter as HJ takes his cock in his fingers and strokes him confidently. “Ah ah ah,” Mingi pants, abs contracting as he tenses. 

“Good?” 

“ _Uhn_ — yeah,” Mingi manages. His whole body is one long tight nerve, twitching into HJ’s touch like it’s never felt a human hand before. 

“Thanks,” HJ says, wry, and then he leans down and takes Mingi’s dick into his mouth. 

20 minutes was a huge overestimate on YeoYeo’s part. Mingi’s going to shoot to the fucking moon in the next two minutes, tops. HJ takes almost his whole dick into his mouth and Mingi can’t help letting out an “Oh, _fuck,_ ” hoarse and disbelieving. 

He’s got his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as HJ gives him the best fucking head he’s ever received, when he feels HJ’s fingers slip down between his legs to play with his balls. Mingi’s breath gets faster, and he lets his thighs fall open even more, wondering if — maybe HJ would get the hint, if he just — 

HJ’s mouth slows and his fingers hesitate, and Mingi hopes; he knows it’s not right, but he hopes — and then HJ’s fingers trail down from his balls and brush over his asshole, testing.

“Ah, please,” Mingi moans, pushing against the finger, his face on fire even as he keeps his eyes shut. Maybe if he doesn’t look at it, he can pretend it’s not happening — that the secret agent he’s fake-fucking isn’t gonna play with his ass because Mingi’s a gross, thirsty creep, begging for it on his back with his legs spread.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” HJ tells him. Mingi almost wants to slit open an eye at the way his voice sounds — is he okay? He sounds weird, voice all cracked and rough even though his words are soothing. He pets Mingi’s thigh with the hand that’s not tracing fingers over his hole. “Got you. Can I put one in?” 

“Yeah, oh, _oh_.” HJ’s finger, spit-slick, pushes into his ass. It feels incredible. Mingi breathes unevenly, groaning as the finger fucks into him. 

“You’re so responsive,” HJ says, sounding surprised. He’s still petting Mingi’s thigh, and Mingi’s cock is wet and swollen and begging to be touched. 

_It’s called being touch-starved; you should_ not _try it_ , Mingi thinks. 

“You can — if you want, you can put another in,” he tells HJ instead. “Only if you want to.”

It’s kind of stupid — of course HJ doesn’t _want to_ , he doesn’t want any part of this, especially not sticking his fingers up a stranger’s ass. But HJ just takes a breath and then there’s two fingers pressing into him, and HJ has short baby fingers but the angle’s so much better than what Mingi can manage on his own, and they’re just long enough to brush his prostate, _oh holy fuck_.

“You like that, huh?” HJ asks him, as his other hand comes up and _finally_ grips Mingi’s poor throbbing dick, stroking him in a rhythm with the fingers in his ass. 

“Ye — es, yes,” Mingi whimpers in response. He sounds pathetic, Jesus, but he’s being taken apart so fucking perfectly, what else is he supposed to do? “So good, oh God.”

“Look at me,” HJ says, all of a sudden. 

The hand on his dick stops moving, and Mingi groans, eyes slipping open. He feels dizzy. It takes all his energy to tilt his head down and find HJ’s eyes, which are so full of heat and who knows _what_ as he stares Mingi down; Mingi swears he looks almost feral in his intensity, which can’t be right — Mingi feels stuck in his gaze, feels small and vulnerable and yeah, touch-starved as fuck. That’s the only reason he could feel so incredible, right? It’s not normal to feel like he’s about to explode during sex, he’s almost positive — 

HJ jacks him off, curving his fingers just right, for a few more perfect seconds. And then Mingi comes onto his stomach with a low cry and collapses, boneless, onto his pillow.

“Wow,” Mingi says, some time later. HJ’s lying next to him when he says it, that’s nice, a nice line of warmth near, but not quite touching him. Then he rolls over and frowns, reaching a tentative hand over. “Hey, can I —”

“Already came,” HJ says, brushing his arm away. 

Mingi blinks down at his crotch and he may be dumb but that’s obviously a lie. HJ’s crotch is spotless and — fully tented. Oh. That’s. Unexpected? Yeah, no, that’s definitely an erection there, a rather uncomfortable-looking one too. As he stares, HJ reaches down and adjusts his crotch. 

“Yeah, you made me come in my pants,” he tells Mingi, with this wide fake grin that’s more confusing than anything else. Okay, HJ doesn’t want him to touch his dick? Since, technically, Mingi doesn't have to — the camera probably can't see HJ's hard, and they've done the sex part already. 

That’s kind of sad? Disappointing? It makes sense, obviously — Mingi feels a little sick, because he can’t believe he forgot HJ didn’t exactly consent to any of this. Of course he wouldn’t want Mingi to get him off if it wasn't necessary for the _operation_. 

“Mind if I use the bathroom?” HJ asks, cutting him out of that shame spiral.

“Be my guest,” Mingi says, somewhat dully. He remembers, now: The plan. The cover. The bugs. His roommate’s room. 

It's stupid and wrong but he wishes he could’ve enjoyed the post-orgasmic haze a little longer — maybe cuddled with HJ, watched Nailed It! or really anything HJ wanted until they fell asleep. 

_Target’s room is done_. YeoYeo's back, his voice low and clear in Mingi's ear.

HJ returns a few minutes later, and Mingi struggles upright, pulling his sweatpants over his dick and his come-covered stomach. Eugh, whatever, he’ll deal with that later. 

“I should go, my Lyft’s almost here,” HJ says. 

_That was fast_ , Mingi thinks, feeling the nausea from before return in a wave. “Yeah, totally,” he says. 

HJ pauses. “Are you alright?” he asks Mingi, and it literally must be Mingi’s imagination but he sounds kind of hesitant. It's got to be his imagination; HJ's barely making eye contact, concentrating on buttoning up his jacket. 

“Yeah,” Mingi says, confused. “Uh, can I walk you out?”

“That’s sweet, but I’m good.” HJ straightens up, jacket all buttoned — he’s so beautiful, Mingi thinks, heart sinking because now he knows what HJ’s fingers feel like in his ass and also, more dangerously, what his laugh sounds like. And it hurts to be this stupid, yeah. “See you around, Mingi.”

“Wait!" Mingi takes a step forward and then stops. HJ's waiting with one foot out the door. No pressure. "So. What happens now? What should we, uh,” he gestures between them, “do?”

A beat, where HJ’s eyes are super hard to read. “I’ll text you,” he says at last, and then he finally, finally, smiles a real fucking smile at Mingi, making his heart grow ten sizes and chest loosen in relief. “Talk to you soon, Mingi,” and he’s out the door.

 _Pleasure to meet you, Mingi!_ YeoYeo says in his ear. 

_______________

It will take Mingi centuries to unpack this single night, he thinks to himself around 4 a.m. that night/morning. The only thing he knows for certain is that he’s outdone himself with the idiocy this time around. He's probably replayed the entire evening five million times in his head, cringing in second hand embarrassment (does it count as second hand if his is the hand that embarrassed first?) as he remembers just how much of a fool he'd acted, from the bar all the way to the end.

Anyway, it's fine! The important thing is that they maintained the cover, right? (5 a.m.) He'd followed HJ's instructions exactly. They had sex, and Mingi sure made enough believable sounds and visuals to convince even the most suspicious of people that the hook-up was real. 

He knows, obviously, that HJ probably doesn't think much about him in general except as a way to do his job. (6 a.m.) Which is clearly what the whole night was about. Mingi would be truly brain-dead to think it was anything more than that. 

There's a part of him that just really hopes that HJ doesn't hate him. (7 a.m.) That's all. Anything else, he'd be happy as a clam, which is a saying he's never actually understood. The point, though, stands. 

And HJ said he'd text him, so.

Shut _up_ , Yunho!


	3. Chapter 3

Hongjoong feels like he’s been staring at his three screens for _hours_. 

“Ugh, I’m done here,” Yeosang says, beside him. He swivels in his chair and stretches, which produces a lot of concerning noises, and then stands up. “I’m heading out. Wooyoung can handle this, right?” 

“Yeah, no worries,” Hongjoong says vaguely, blinking at his middle screen. His eyes hurt. 

“You coming with?”

“I think I should stick around.” He rolls his neck around and winces when he hears a crack. “Lot left to go through.”

Instead of nodding and leaving, Yeosang sighs, which is not a particularly good sign. Then he steps closer to Hongjoong, a doubly bad sign, and drops back into his chair (three strikes). 

“You sure you’re okay?” Yeosang's eyes seek his out, bright and concerned. _Oh no, so they’re going to talk._ “Look, I know you said that field op went fine, but ever since then you’ve been all distracted, and you’ve been staying late more than usual.” Guilty, Hongjoong looks away, and Yeosang leans forward. “Tell me I’m not imagining things,” he says. “Hongjoong. I saw how you looked when you came out of that op. If that guy did anything to you, hurt you or anything, you have to tell us.”

Yeosang, Hongjoong decides, is way too perceptive for his own good. It may be a benefit in their line of work, but when it comes to Hongjoong and his personal problems, it _blows_. 

“I know I’ve been distracted,” he says carefully. He even meets Yeosang’s gaze, which is a feat of courage when you’re spewing bullshit. “But seriously, nothing happened. Like I said in the report. Enough sexual activity to ensure plausibility. He was —” _absolutely breathtaking_ , Hongjoong’s mind supplies, unhelpfully, “— just your average 20 year old kid.” 

Barely a year younger than him, to be precise, but the size and significance of their other differences make it hard to remember that. 

“Okay, if you say it was fine, I believe you.” Yeosang looks at him for another couple seconds like he’s giving Hongjoong one last chance to tell the damn truth. Then, when Hongjoong stays silent, he claps his hands on his knees and stands for a second time. “So what’s got you staying late again?”

Hongjoong gestures to his screens. “Going through the financials for the Oregon embezzler. Oh, and reviewing the footage of the pill pickup from yesterday.” 

“Yeesh.” Yeosang makes a sympathetic face. “You know you can delegate some of this stuff to me and Seonghwa, right? And Wooyoung, even if he might be a little bitchy about it.” Hongjoong snorts, and he continues, “Seriously, you don’t have to do everything just because you’re the most senior.” 

“Message received,” Hongjoong says, smiling, because he does appreciate it — all of it. Yeosang just huffs at him, punching the exit code and throwing up his hood as he leaves. “And eat a vegetable when you get home, please,” Hongjoong calls after him, before the door swings closed. “You cannot live off chicken alone!” 

“Watch me!” drifts in from the hallway. 

Once the sounds of Yeosang’s footsteps disappear, he turns back to his screens and lets out a sigh.

The truth is that he does want to spill his tangled, confused thoughts to someone. He’s considered doing so probably a few hundred times during the past week, second-guessing himself every hour and keeping silent. He just doesn’t know what to _say_. He barely understands it himself. 

Part of him — a big part — is deathly afraid they’ll take the whole op from him if he says anything that makes them doubt his professionalism.

They’ve all had to do their fair share of honey traps — having to fuck someone for an op — with various degrees of _did they really have to be this dirty_. But usually they’re fucking the target, or a similarly shitty relevant individual, maybe to gather intel or blackmail material or get someone to defect. 

They don’t usually fuck civilians, because there usually isn’t a need or a use for it. Hongjoong can remember only one other situation similar to the one he’s in: Seonghwa had seduced the daughter of an arms dealer in order to plant bugs in his house. 

That had been a truly hilarious op — listening to Seonghwa _flirt_ , oh Jesus, he and Yeosang and Wooyoung had almost lost their minds. (“It worked,” Seonghwa had hissed, all ruffled, afterward, “Fuck you all very much.”) 

In general, though, they try to avoid involving civilians whenever possible, both for Alpha Four’s collective sanity and because civilians are messy and _innocent._

But they’d been stalled forever on the pangolin dealer op, unable to get even a tiny measure of traction. It’d been so bad that Seonghwa proposed approaching Mingi, with Hongjoong to act as his handler, and they’d all agreed.

They have a process for these things, too: Hongjoong did his due diligence, and preliminary research suggested Mingi was, actually, your average struggling 20 year old student. Even digging up blackmail material, he hadn’t found anything special other than the nudes and a few texts with friends that revealed Mingi’s fear of being outed. 

It had seemed open and shut. They get their in; Mingi gets 50k and protection from a Very Bad Man. 

That was then. 

Hongjoong sighs even more deeply. Then he realizes he’s been zoned out, staring at his screen, for so long that it’s gone dark. He straightens up in his chair and swallows down a yawn. 

He really should be home right now. None of his ops are hot, and he hasn’t been sleeping much recently, as Yeosang had clearly noticed. But. 

He really shouldn’t. 

He really, really should not. 

It would be disrespectful and inappropriate. Not to mention a waste of time and resources.

 _AHHHHHH_ , he thinks, which summarizes the circumstances quite nicely, in his opinion. 

Hongjoong’s had this battle every night since he’d walked out on Mingi. On Mingi and his soft, messy hair and earnest, confused eyes — a very astonishing, super-sized temptation. Mingi, who had made Hongjoong laugh more in a matter of hours than he had in years. 

(And he’d opened so sweetly for Hongjoong’s hands, shaky and shivering, like he’d never had it so good.)

Hongjoong’s only _human_ , for fuck’s sake. 

He’s been good so far. He hasn’t texted Mingi, and Mingi hasn’t texted _him_ because Hongjoong hasn’t turned on the app function that makes him contactable. 

He feels conflicted about it, because Mingi had seemed to swell up like a balloon when he’d promised to text ( _of course he had,_ Hongjoong reminds himself, _he wants to be reassured the op’s going well_ ). But Hongjoong hadn’t specified a time, and there’s nothing relevant to talk about anyway, so he’s saving everyone time by not texting. 

So he hasn’t texted Mingi, but he’s sinned in other ways. 

“Computer, bring up Living Room and Kitchen monitors, Operation Phi Kappa Sig,” he says. 

He’s just going to check in. That’s all. Even if the target won’t be back for another few days, it’s — he just wants to make sure Mingi’s doing okay. And it’s not like he’s watching Mingi in the bathroom, naked in the shower, or sleeping in his room — he’s just keeping an eye on him. 

It’s gone this way every night. _Quite the unit leader you are,_ he thinks to himself.

The time is a little past 8pm, meaning Mingi should be leaving work. _God, you freak._ Hongjoong runs a hand down his face in shame. He doesn’t close the feeds, though, and that says all it needs to.

The rooms are empty. Hongjoong leaves the feeds up and forges through some of his other work. There’s a case that’s still bamboozling him pretty thoroughly; a new type of drug encased in pill form — its effect is stimulative, not unlike cocaine, and causes psychosis in a significant subset of users. He works on their leads for a while, until movement on his right-most screen draws his attention.

Mingi’s home. Hongjoong can’t help but smile, a small secret smile in the empty office, as Mingi shrugs his coat off and tosses his bag onto the table. He disappears out of the room — likely to shower — and Hongjoong tunes out until Mingi pops back up, heading into the kitchen now. 

_Eat a vegetable?_ Hongjoong think-suggests. So far he’s seen Mingi eat a solid diet of frozen meals, rice, chicken, canned beans, and nachos. He’d get along splendidly with Yeosang, meaning his arteries are probably Suffering. 

Hongjoong watches him fiddle with things in front of the open fridge for a while, then put something in the microwave. The angle of their monitor means he can’t quite see what four-course meal Mingi is concocting until he turns, plate in hand, to sit at the kitchen table.

Oh God. It’s a hot dog. _I’m going to lose it_ , Hongjoong thinks, despairing. 

Mingi eats the hot dog in what can’t be more than a minute. He scrolls through his phone between bites, and Hongjoong could go in and see what he’s doing, but he doesn’t care that much. Just watching him live life is enough. 

Hongjoong really needs to find some hobbies, for fuck’s sake. 

When Mingi’s finished there’s a stripe of ketchup (?) on his cheek. Hongjoong watches him try to lick it away with his tongue, then give up and wipe the back of his hand across his cheek. Mingi licks the ketchup off his hand, eyes still focused on his phone. 

Somehow this all makes Hongjoong feel worse than if he _had_ been watching Mingi in the shower. 

_I should text him_ , he thinks suddenly. It’s been a week since the field op, after all; Mingi’s probably wondering what’s up. He’d probably appreciate an update, even if there’s still not much to say, other than “we be waitin and we be seein,” as Wooyoung would say. 

Hongjoong takes his phone in hand. He opens TimeOut. He opens Mingi’s contact. 

_Hello, Mingi. How are you?_

He presses send. 

Onscreen, Mingi knocks his water glass on its side and just manages to catch it before it falls to the ground. He’s staring at his phone and Hongjoong wishes their cams were better quality. He can’t tell what Mingi’s expression is very well at all. 

Then his thumbs speed over his phone, and Hongjoong’s phone beeps. 

_im good! howre you?_

Hongjoong lets out a tense breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. _I’m doing well._ This is when he should start talking about the op, the target, but instead he sends, _How was your day?_

Mingi takes a sip of water before responding. _twas fine, i guess, i saved a kid at work who was pretending to drown and got him in trouble with his mom for being a punk ass bitch and making me get wet_ , he replies. And then, immediately after: _cause i went in the pool to save him, i mean that’s why i was wet_. And then: _anyway how was your day?_

Hongjoong can imagine all of this vividly. He’s smiling. _Sorry to hear you got wet_ , he replies, because he can’t help himself. Mingi huffs at that on the screen, then tips his head back and closes his eyes for a second. A concerning reaction. _I wanted to update you about the operation_ , Hongjoong adds quickly. 

_cool, that would be great_ , Mingi texts. 

_The update is that there is no update_ would be most accurate, but Hongjoong uses his creative license. _As you’re aware, your roommate has extended his trip abroad. We’ve learned from outside sources that he has been establishing additional business ties during the trip, and that he’ll be engaging with these contacts soon after he returns_. 

None of this is particularly untrue, but they also learned about it a hot three weeks ago, long before Mingi got involved. 

_oh man_ , Mingi texts him. _so when he gets back, that’ll be crunch time for you guys, i guess?_

 _Indeed._

_damn, i hope it isn’t too much work_. His phone beeps with another message. _am i supposed to do anything special before/after he comes back?_

 _No, just act as you normally would,_ Hongjoong replies, a bit thrown off by the pure Niceness in the previous message. _That being said, it would be ideal to minimize interactions as much as possible._

_won't be too hard, we barely see each other usually_

Hongjoong isn’t sure what to say. _Good_ , or _Glad to hear it_ , maybe? He should close out the conversation, he knows, having given Mingi his “update,” but he doesn’t really — he doesn’t want to. 

On screen, Mingi has put his plate in the sink and is walking out of the kitchen, out of the reach of the monitors. Back to his room, most likely. For the best, Hongjoong thinks. They shouldn’t be talking too much, even on an encrypted messaging app; it could be — it might arouse suspicion, it could — 

_hey, let me know if this is out of line, but can i send u memes?_

Oh. Hongjoong blinks at the text. Then his heart does something odd, something between a twinge and a skipped beat, tender but warm. _absolutely_ , he sends without hesitation. 

_https://pics.loveforquotes.com/bog-witch-69318688.png_  
_this is random but i saw it earlier and it’s the most recent one i have saved_

_That was random but funny_ , Hongjoong texts. 

It was funny in an unexpected, weird way, like most memes, he supposes. Yeosang and Wooyoung are all about the memes, and he and Seonghwa are often left blinking in absolute confusion, but he’ll admit some of them are pretty hilarious. 

_im imagining u typing LOL with a blank face_

_I am nothing but sincere, always._ Hongjoong is smiling as he texts. 

_yeah huh_ , Mingi replies.

And it starts like that. 

He texts Mingi when he’s at work, shielding his phone guiltily from his coworkers. He texts Mingi when he’s at home, caught between waking and sleeping, pillow cold beneath his cheek. He texts Mingi at 3am, also at work, pulling an all-nighter to cover Seonghwa on a field op.

It’s _bad_ , because Mingi keeps texting him back. He sends Hongjoong truly the stupidest memes, song recs, dance covers — one made by Mingi and his friend Yunho, which makes Hongjoong feel strange. Seeing Mingi gyrate like that, even as a joke, that’s — um. 

Once, an article about cosmology that explains what aliens could realistically look like — bipedal and carbon-based, probably — which engenders a long and chaotic conversation about whether they’d fuck an alien. If they’re humanoid, Hongjoong is a yes. Mingi would be down for tentacles, and again Hongjoong is really not sure how that makes him feel at all, very confusing indeed.

Mingi texts back even when he really shouldn’t be. Which leads to Hongjoong refusing to respond if he knows Mingi’s at work or in class. _I will not be the cause of you failing out of school_ , he tells him firmly. 

_that’s cute HJ but im already failing_ , Mingi responds. _might as well make it fun!_

◔_◔ 

One night, around 10, Mingi texts him while he’s waiting for his takeout in the microwave. He’s made the rare decision to mix himself a rum and coke, because hey — it’s Friday, and his job never exactly ends, but Wooyoung takes point on weekends so the rest of them can have a slight break. 

_yo what’s the better vodka, seagram’s or tito’s ?_ Mingi messages. 

_You better be asking for a friend, Mr. Barely-Twenty, Acts Fourteen._

_mr. BTAF is my father_ , Mingi texts, and then, _you can just call me baby_

The microwave beeps, but Hongjoong is Not Listening, blinking down at his phone. That’s quite — a lot. _Where exactly are you, that you’re asking about vodka?_ he asks, ignoring the last message. 

_im out with yunho and some ppl_  
_cmon HJ help a man avoid emptying his guts at the end of the night_

 _Why’re you texting me, then? Ask them._

Hongjoong bites his lip and rereads the text, wondering if it sounds harsh. He didn’t mean it that way; he’s just confused why Mingi’s texting him when he’s clearly out someplace to have fun with his friends. As any 20 year old would. 

He shouldn’t be texting his — well. He shouldn’t be texting Hongjoong. He should be laughing and talking with the people he’s spending time with. 

_I mean you should be having fun with them, not texting me,_ Hongjoong adds.

 _thanks dad_  
_maybe i want to talk to you_

That should _not_ make him feel like that, helplessly warm all through his chest and extremities. He shouldn’t enable this. Mingi’s probably just a little bored. He’d said Hongjoong has good banter (even if Hongjoong doesn’t exactly know what this means), and he’s probably just a little tipsy, looking for a distraction. 

_Get rum_ , Hongjoong sends finally. _Less likely to lead to gut emptying, and it gets you drunk just as fast._ Shit, that sounds like he’s trying to get Mingi drunk. No, it’s fine; Mingi had asked, right? _Now go dance or whatever_ , he adds. 

_yes sir_

Jesus _Christ_. Hongjoong needs to take a break to breathe slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth. 

He adds a generous pour of rum into his glass.

He’s a little jittery now, and he eats his lo mein with half his mind drifting to things he’s really been trying his hardest to _not think of_ for the past two weeks now. He wonders, stomach clenched, whether anyone is chatting Mingi up. Hongjoong would, if he’d actually met Mingi by chance at a bar or party somewhere, sweatpants or no sweatpants. 

No sweatpants. Hm. 

Hongjoong groans and lies back on his bed, one hand thrown over his forehead like a dramatic, swooning heroine. It might be the tipsiness, but there’s a thin thread of arousal humming through his body, like a gas stove set to low. His thoughts are defying every attempt to stay on safe things, like work and his next tattoo and the state of the women’s rights movement. 

_yes sir_. Somewhere, Satan is cackling. 

It’s around midnight that he gets the next text. 

_Don’t open it,_ he warns himself, staring at the notification. _Pretend you’ve gone to sleep._

He opens it.

_hello i danced a lot_  
_im v sweaty now hahaaaaaa_

Hongjoong lets his eyes fall closed, phone held tightly on his chest. When he opens them again, there’s another message:

_jw do u guys ever watch the footage from the cams you put in my apt_

Oh fuck no. Hongjoong feels his breathing get louder, staccato. Oh no no. He can’t know, right? Hongjoong’s been so careful to act as if he doesn’t watch Mingi — he doesn’t do it as often since they started texting so much, but sometimes he just — sometimes it’s the best part of his day, watching Mingi’s peaceful face, snoring with his mouth open, because he fell asleep right on the couch doing his classwork. 

He’s almost positive Mingi does not know. _Sometimes, when we need to make sure the feeds still work,_ he texts carefully. _I know it’s not ideal, privacy-wise, but I_ — backspace backspace —- _we do need to check in every so often._

_no thats okay hahahha_  
_are u gonna be checking tonight?_

Hongjoong frowns at the question, and then: _Oh._ He must want to know — because. There _has_ been someone, most likely, who hit on him. And he hit back, and now they’re going to — do what he and Hongjoong had done, except for real. 

There’s an odd feeling sinking through Hongjoong’s insides. Something bitter and heavy. He clears his throat before he replies, even though he’s not actually talking to anyone. _We won’t be checking in tonight. We can ask every time we do, actually, to respect your privacy. Apologies for not instituting that protocol beforehand._

He gets four messages quickly, one right after the other. 

_no no its really fine ahahha_  
_i dont mind really_  
_just uh askin bc the wifi’s a lot better in the living room lol_  
_ahhaha tmi sorry just wanted to shield ur eyes_

Okay. Okay. 

So he’d misunderstood that. That’s fine. Everything is fine. Of course Mingi can — of course he’s allowed to — of course he can, like Hongjoong and everyone else, masturbate. 

(When he’d been researching Mingi’s browsing history, Hongjoong found that he spends around 25% of his internet time looking at porn-related sites, almost an equal split between pegging/femdom and male-on-male dom/sub. The knowledge hadn’t been _hot_ , then, of course, just part of building a full profile before the initial approach.) 

Now it just feels intrusive to know that. Because it fucking _is_. Hongjoong is not a Good Person, at all. His equilibrium is all fucked, and the alcohol he’s imbibed must be making it worse. 

_that was rly tmi oh my god_  
_im sorry just forget i said that_

Hongjoong attempts to achieve a level of internal quietude before responding. _You don’t need to apologize,_ he types swiftly. _It’s your apartment, you don’t need to ask permission to do that_. 

Permission, Jesus, he sounds like one of the fucking doms in those softcore vids Mingi watches. 

_Are you home now?_ Hongjoong asks. 

He just wants to know for his own peace of mind, because Mingi is clearly drunk. Hongjoong could check the feeds, but he’d just promised not to, and anyway he’d rather hear it straight from the horse’s mouth (the horse being Mingi). He knows Yunho is a good friend but he doesn’t trust the general populace around someone as shy and genuine and friendly as Mingi. 

He just wants to know Mingi’s safe, and then he can sign off, and Mingi can — jerk off in peace. Okay?

_i just got home_  
_r u sure i didn’t make it weird 😰_

_I feel bad that you’ve been altering your life because you’re worried about us watching you,_ Hongjoong types, lip caught between his teeth. He should get a prize for being so honest. 

_not worried_  
_kind of the opposite_

Come again? Hongjoong stares. He can’t possibly mean — 

_jesus im too drunk for this ugh im sorry_ , Mingi adds.

 _It’s fine,_ Hongjoong texts, mind still moving in slow-motion. And then it _has_ to be the few drinks he’s had, because he asks, _Do you like the idea of being watched?_

He waits with breath held tight in his throat for the response. 

_i like the idea of you watching me_

And just like that, his arousal flames into a full blaze. Completely involuntary, of course, but Hongjoong groans and reaches down to press the heel of his palm against his cock. 

_i know its fucking weird im sorry_

_It’s not weird, Mingi_ , Hongjoong responds. _But Mingi, I can’t watch you._ And then, thumbs moving quickly: _I can’t watch you do something like that. It wouldn’t be appropriate at all. It would be taking advantage of you, not to mention a violation of your privacy. Do you understand?_

_its not a violation if i want it_  
_i just thought, um. u were hard last time, and i thought maybe you were attracted to me_  
_but also im so so sorry if that was just like an accident_  
_oh god im such a fucking idiot_  
_seriously just forget it im sorry i know it’s just your job_  
_i wont perv on u again i swear_

The messages come with such speed, one after another, that Hongjoong feels like he’s being ambushed. He feels strange, the same muddled but scarily intense Something that’s been unsteadying him for a while now. 

_Can we talk on the phone?_ he messages, finally. _Are you in your room? I’ll call you, but remember we’ll have to keep the cover._

_yea_

Hongjoong calls him. He puts the phone on speaker. 

“Hi,” Mingi says when he picks up, and then he launches right into, “I’m so sorry, H — dude, I really am. That was way out of line and I’m just, like, I was dancing and drank a lot and I just —”

“Mingi,” Hongjoong cuts him off, and then he pauses to consider how exactly to continue. “I’m. I’m not. You weren’t wrong about what you said,” he says, feeling slightly unhinged. “I’m attracted to you. But it’s very wrong, for very many reasons — you know that, right?”

“Wait, really?” Mingi’s voice sounds breathless. “You’re really attracted to me?”

Hongjoong sighs. “That’s not the focal point, but yes.”

There’s a sound as if Mingi’s relaxing onto his bed, sheets rustling. “Wow. That’s so cool.”

“Are you hearing what I’m saying to you, Mingi?” 

“I’m hearing you,” Mingi tells him happily. “I’m hearing you loud and clear. Your voice sounds so good,” he adds, low-pitched, like a secret. 

Hongjoong hears static then, like Mingi’s put the phone down. And then he hears the sound of jeans unzipping. 

“Mingi,” he says, alarmed. His own cock never quite fully softened, and it twitches like it doesn’t know how fucking wrong that is. “Mingi, what are you doing.”

“I’m just getting — ah, getting comfortable.” 

“Mingi,” he says again, and then stops. It’s as if he’s underwater, pressure all around him, everything blurred and confusing. 

“‘M not gonna do anything.” A hitched breath, and more rustling. “I’m just — it was starting to hurt, that’s all. Hearing your voice is a lot.”

Hongjoong pinches his thigh viciously. “We shouldn’t do this,” he says, helpless. 

“Shouldn’t talk on the phone?”

“You know what I mean.” Hongjoong sucks in a careful breath and unbuttons his slacks, exhaling unsteadily as his cock meets the open air. Hypocrite. 

“Wanna explain it,” Mingi breathes into the phone. Then: “Wait. Are you actually, like, hard, too?” 

Eyes closed, Hongjoong sighs. “What would it matter if I was?”

“You’re hard,” Mingi says, not even attempting to hide his glee. “Fuck, HJ.”

 _Call me Hongjoong,_ he thinks suddenly, mouth tightening. _My name is Hongjoong_. “I’m not going to do anything about it,” he says out loud, as firmly as possible. Then he swallows. “You can, though, if you want.”

“And you’ll stay on the line?”

That’s not what he’s supposed to say. _Damn it,_ Hongjoong thinks. He’s using every last mental trick in his book not to imagine Mingi stretched out on his bed, all clean warm skin begging to be touched, his mouth wine-red and soft as a cloud. Like how he’d been under Hongjoong just days ago. 

“I’ll stay on the line,” he confirms, like he’s signing his soul away right there. 

The sound Mingi makes next is truly unholy. A bitten-off groan, like he’s been knifed right in the gut. He must have started touching himself. And he must’ve grabbed some kind of — Jesus, some kind of lube, because it sounds so wet, the slick, unmistakeable sounds of someone fucking their hand. 

_You cannot touch yourself,_ Hongjoong warns himself. _You cannot let this get any more out of hand —_ poor choice of words, huh. He feels lightheaded. 

“Are you still allowed to — _hn_ — talk to me?” Mingi’s panting voice breaks his rigid concentration. 

“What should I say?” 

“Uh, I mean, like. You could tell me what you’d — y’know, do to me if you were here,” Mingi says, with a little self-conscious laugh. “But also I think you could — hah — read Post Malone lyrics and I’d still nut in two seconds. Full disclosure.” He makes another sound, a high-pitched kind of gasp, and Hongjoong just can't anymore. 

“Take your hand off your cock then,” he says, without thinking. 

“Whuh?” Mingi says. “Why?” 

“Because I want you to put your fingers up your ass.”

 _Please reconsider!_ his morality center beeps an alert. _This is a Mistake!_

“Oh.” Hongjoong hears a sound like a sharp intake of breath. “Uh. You want me to do that?”

“I think you’d look incredible fucking yourself with your fingers,” he hears himself say. His cock is throbbing so hard it aches. “You’ve got lube, right?”

“Oh my God. Yes. Yeah yeah yeah.” Some sounds of movement, and then: “How many fingers do you, uh, do you want?”

 _Good. He’s so damn good._ “Can you take two, with lube?” Hongjoong asks. 

His fingers finally curl around his cock, and he bites back a harsh sound. Mingi doesn’t need to hear how turned-on he is from this, a whole pile of BadWrong that he clearly lacks the moral fortitude to avoid.

Mingi’s breathing is so loud, even through the phone. “I can,” he says roughly. “I did it.”

“Too much?”

“Ah — it’s a little — no, it’s good, I used a lot of lube.” 

“Can you reach your prostate?”

“I don’t know,” Mingi says, soft like he’s apologetic, and still panting. “I don’t know if I can reach it from this angle, I’m sorry —”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Hongjoong’s stroking himself now, light so he doesn’t come too soon. “Just get yourself ready for three, okay?” He hears a goddamn whimper, and has to press his heel in again to avoid a wave of want. Deep breath. “How does it feel?”

“It’s good, it’s g-good,” comes through, uneven. “Yours were better. I really — really wish you were here right now.”

Hongjoong can hear him fingering himself, and it’s — he can imagine in 1080p this fucking awkward, _goofy_ , weird, amazing giant of a kid with his fingers in his ass, thinking about Hongjoong’s hands on him. If he were there — if he were there, he’d stick his fingers in Mingi’s beautiful mouth and have him suck, and Hongjoong would make him _beg_ before he put his cock in his — 

“I’m really c-close, can I touch my dick, please, please?”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong breathes out. He can’t hide how far gone he is. His own hand is wrapped tightly around his cock, and he sets a fast pace as Mingi groans again, really sounding as if he’s close to death. “You can come whenever you want, okay, you’ve been so good for me, mm?”

“I wanna — _ah._ Are you still — are you jerking off?” 

Hongjoong pauses, his thighs trembling. Fuck. “I — yeah, I’m — I’m close, too. Mingi,” he says, and he’s not quite sure what he wants to say next but then he’s coming all over his damn fingers, hips thrusting into his hand because it feels so fucking incredible, and the phone’s sputtering out sounds of what must be Mingi coming too, in a long drawn-out moan. 

“Shit,” he hears next. More rustling from the phone. He’s too fucked out to quite care. This was much better than the quick orgasm he’d had after stumbling out, still partially hard, from Mingi’s apartment all that time ago. Mm. “HJ, are you good?” Mingi asks. 

Oh, HJ. That’s him. That’s how Mingi knows him. 

The come’s already drying, sticky on his fingers, some on his abdomen. 

“I’m good,” he says. “Are you good?”

 _Why do we sound like we just lost our virginities to each other in the back of a truck on prom night?_ he wonders dully. 

“I’m fucking peachy.” Mingi must be wiping the come off himself, if Hongjoong’s ears are any good at detective work. “You’re very, y’know. A lot.” 

“A lot of what?”

“Just. Wow. You know what I mean?” 

“I can’t say I do.” Hongjoong rests his sticky hand on his stomach. 

He’s very tired, all of a sudden. He just came so hard he nearly lost consciousness, and he’s very not looking forward to when his Moral Police come back online and remind him that he just phone-fucked a civilian during the _middle of an operation_ , fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck. He really took “handler” a bit further than he should have, to put it lightly. 

There’s no way to even spin it off as maintaining the cover, he thinks, listening to Mingi move around his room.

No, it’s just Hongjoong and his newly discovered loneliness, deciding to fuck professionalism and all established rules of engagement because he got a heart-boner for a guy — a _boy_ — who smiles crooked, and texts strange, random things for no reason, and looks at Hongjoong like he’s unlike anything he’s ever seen. 

“Mingi, I have to go back to work,” he forces himself to say. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

A beat, and then Mingi says, “Okay, but wait, when will you —”

He hangs up.

What has he done, oh God. Guilt flares, almost as hot as the arousal had been. 

_Look, the op won’t be hot for another few days,_ he tells himself, to stave off a spiral. And then they’ll probably wrap up the case in another week or two. He can get through that long without making this kind of mistake again. He can do his job and be Mingi’s handler and keep him safe and fight crime and _not do lewd things with him_ , all at the same time. 

_As long as Mingi doesn’t ask for it,_ inner Hongjoong says. _Are you sure you’d be able to resist that?_

He’ll just have to be. For Mingi, and for himself, and for the good of the whole goddamn case. He’ll have to be. And Mingi will hopefully understand that. 

Hongjoong doesn’t sleep much that night.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep. 

Sleep would be nice, Hongjoong muses. But that would mean — that would mean having to get up from his station, where there are so many _nice_ distractions, and go home, where there are much fewer nice distractions, and nothing much to attract him anyway. His apartment is cold and boring. No food, either. 

Much better to stay at work. Even if his head’s too heavy to keep upright.

_Beep beep._

Hongjoong turns his head where it’s smushed against the top of his desk, just enough to grab his phone. 

Through blurry eyes, he sees it’s a message from Mingi. Another message from Mingi. 

A sharp pang in his gut, and Hongjoong thinks he really should’ve made himself uncontactable. 

He could have, right after their _conversation_ , but. He hadn’t. It had felt too cruel. Also, Mingi could still find himself in danger, and Hongjoong would be an even shittier handler if he eliminated the only means Mingi has to cry for help. 

No, it’s much better to read every single one of Mingi’s (nonessential) messages. It’s much better to respond every twelve hours, adding enough reaction to adequately address the message, but not further the conversation at all. It’s almost too easy. 

Except Mingi keeps texting him. 

It’s gone on for four _days_ , and Mingi keeps chugging away with his dumb memes and Tic Tacs and random updates on what animals he’s crossed paths with that day. 

It makes Hongjoong very, very sad in a way he hasn’t felt in recent memory. 

He opens this one, because he’s too sleep deprived to wait the requisite few hours. 

_so my roommate’s back tmrw_ , Mingi’s sent. 

That’s true. It’s part of why Hongjoong really should go home and get some sleep. So tomorrow he can watch the monitors and keep track of potential opportunities for evidence grabs. So they can finally wrap up this fucking op in a little bow and throw it in the trash can (the trash can being the FBI, or relevant international law enforcement, depending on where the evidence gets Grabbed). 

_Yes that’s true,_ he messages back, vision still blurry because one eye is mashed into the desk. With a small ache in his stomach, he asks, _Are you okay?_

The reply takes a few minutes to come. Hongjoong is close to dropping off when he hears the tiny ping, phone held loosely in hand. 

_im okay, thanks_  
_howre you_  
_youve seemed kind of busy lately_

Of course Mingi’s noticed. Of course he’s not too stupid to compare how much they’d been texting before and after PhoneGate 2020. Hongjoong really wishes he’d been stupid. Why couldn’t he have been just the tiniest smidge oblivious? Why?

 _I’m fine, thanks,_ he sends. _A lot going on right now._

_gotcha, hope it goes ok!_  
_could i ask you something?_

Bodes badly. Hongjoong tries to blink a measure of fuzziness out of his eyes. _Sure._

_i was just wondering what happens when this is over_  
_like to me and you i mean_  
_how does that work??_  
_ah idk what im saying afjnwibvb_  
_can i call u?_

The pit that’s been hanging out in his stomach twinges. _The op’s going to be hot soon,_ he reminds himself. _Just give him some quick vague answers and it’ll be fine._

Hongjoong calls him. He sits up with effort and coughs, grimacing at the slight sore throat he’s developing as his cells are starved of regeneration time. One ring, two — 

“Wow, hi!” Mingi says when he picks up. “Thanks for calling. I know you’re busy.”

“No worries,” Hongjoong says. “What are you up to?” He takes a second to check the time — 11:05, not too late. Mingi is probably in his bed, chilling, as he’d say. “If you could put in headphones, by the way, that would be great.”

“Sure, no prob. I’m watching this Chinese dance competition show.” He hears some static and then a loud clunk: “Shit, that was my laptop, one sec — okay, we’re good.” 

“And here I was thinking your lack of anti-virus software would get it,” Hongjoong says, slumping back down. He’s a bit delirious, maybe, and Very Sleepy. He’s already forgotten why Mingi called him. Or why he’d called Mingi — yes. That was it. “Turns out it’s just your lack of coordination.” 

“Haha, very funny,” Mingi says. Then he coughs. “So, I don’t wanna waste your time. I was just — it’s not very relevant to the, uh, the situation. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I figured I’d ask you to see what the deal usually is. In these cases.”

Hongjoong squints. “What do you mean?”

“Like, you know. Are we allowed to be — like, friends, after this?”

Oh. Hongjoong swallows, and it feels like there are knives in his throat. “Mingi,” he says. “I don’t — I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

A beat of silence. “You don’t think it’s a good idea.” Mingi’s voice sounds duller. “Is that because it’s protocol, or something?”

“Well. Strictly speaking, there isn’t a formal protocol to the situation. Kind of just been — making it up as I go.” Hongjoong winces. That does not make him sound like a professional at all. “Even if there was, I haven’t exactly been following what the protocol would be.”

“Are you talking about the other night?” 

Now his head hurts, too, not just his throat. He huffs a laugh completely devoid of amusement. “Yeah, that’s part of it.”

“So…” Mingi’s voice trails into nothing. Then, “So, fine, you wish that hadn’t happened because we’re…because of the situation. I get it.” His tone sharpens. “I don’t see why we can’t do stuff after everything is over.”

Jesus Christ. Hongjoong blinks rapidly at his monitors. _Because I’m not who you think I am!_ he wants to scream. 

“You don’t see why?” he says instead. (He’s happy, bitterly, that Mingi’s headphones mean he doesn’t have to worry about what he says. No monitors to fool — no one’s hearing him but Mingi.) “Mingi, I blackmailed you with your own nudes. I’ve invaded your privacy in too many ways to count, at this point. I planted cameras in your apartment. I could read every single one of your texts if I wanted to. I’m the farthest thing from someone you’d want to be involved with, in the real world.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. It’s not normal, I get it.” Mingi’s words are rushed, shot out one after another. “But you’re not, like, a bad person. You only do that for your job. And you’re funny, like you have a great sense of humor and I can tell you care about — you care about people. I can tell.”

Hongjoong may only do it for his job, but he sure as hell isn’t supposed to enjoy it. And he does care about people in general, yes, but more specifically about Mingi. He cares about Mingi in a larger than the case way. He feels things for this random, _normal_ kid that are very large and powerful, so much so that he is scared by them. 

That’s the problem, isn’t it. 

He breathes in deeply. “Mingi, look,” he tries again. “I care about every one of my cases. Yes, I got a little —” another breath — “carried away, with you. That was a mistake —”

“That’s your opinion,” Mingi cuts in, defiant. 

“Yes, it is my opinion,” Hongjoong says forcefully, feeling like he’s stumbling at the edge of a cliff. His whole body hurts, throbbing under the too-bright lights of the office. “Look. I don’t want to be unkind. But just because I text you back, it doesn’t magically make me into someone you should want to be _anything_ with.” He swallows, hard. “You’re my professional responsibility, and I truly apologize for not keeping things 100% professional, but Mingi — they need to be 1001% professional going forward. Even after the case.”

When he’s done he rubs his hand over his eyes and listens to the sound of his own stilted breaths. Mingi’s side is silent. 

He checks, but Mingi hasn’t hung up. “Mingi, are you there?” he tries, tentative. 

“I’m here,” Mingi says finally. He sounds a little wobbly, but like he’s trying to hide it. Hongjoong hates himself so fucking much right now, everything hurts, goddamn. “You don’t have to — you don’t have to explain it. I was just being stupid. You don’t owe me anything. It’s fine. I’ll get over it.”

“Mingi,” Hongjoong says. 

“No, seriously,” Mingi says. “Don’t worry. You must think I’m so dumb,” he adds, with a tiny, self-deprecating chuckle that makes Hongjoong’s throat tighten up, hand twitching like it wants to punch that sound out of the air. And then fit itself over Mingi’s mouth so he can’t ever make any sounds, except his big scrunchy shy laughs.

“I don’t think you’re dumb.” Hongjoong’s heart is thumping too-loud in the quiet air. “I’m just trying to —”

“Don’t worry about me, really.” A shifting sound, and Hongjoong hears water running. “I’ve gotta go. Just, I don’t know. Do what you have to do, I guess.”

“Alright,” Hongjoong says, desperate. “Alright, just — Mingi, I know you’re not happy with me, but please, you — please don’t do anything to jeopardize the case.” 

What he means is Mingi shouldn’t do anything _stupid_ that might put himself in danger, but he realizes too late what it sounds like. Not good. 

Mingi’s laugh has acid in it this time. “You really think I’m a dumb kid, huh? Don’t worry, HJ,” he adds, with extra stress on the name. “I won’t do anything.”

He hangs up before Hongjoong can respond, leaving him to stare at the blinking screen, mind blank. 

Fucking hell. 

He’d been so convinced he knew what he was doing. He’s the unit leader, for fuck’s sake; he really thought he could salvage the wreck he’s made of this whole fucking operation, if he just waited it out. If Mingi forgot about the phone thing, just took the hint, and finally realized Hongjoong wasn’t an appropriate choice for a friend, let alone anything else. 

If Mingi forgot about his apparent infatuation with Hongjoong and found someone normal and nice, even if they were a bit pimply and sexually repressed. Someone he could go on ice cream dates with, and dance with, and make out with in the corner of a crowded club — 

Hongjoong had thought he had it handled. Clearly, he was wrong. 

___________

He tells Yeosang everything. 

Hongjoong sits down with him after work the next day and tells the whole story, start to finish. Starting with where it had started to go wrong — the plant — and continuing to how he’d made Mingi Stalking a regular part of his daily routine. Then the texting. And then the fucking phone sex, which is the worst. 

Cheeks flaming red, he glosses over the gory details; it’s enough that Yeosang knows that they’d mutually masturbated via the telephone. (“Oh my God, Hongjoong,” Yeosang says, hand over his mouth like a shocked debutante.) 

And ending with the whole garbage dump of a conversation they’d had yesterday.

When he’s finished, he sits back and feels like he’s just finished the last lap of an Olympic race. 

“Wow,” Yeosang says. “Wow, Hongjoong, that’s a lot.”

“I know. I wish it had gone not as shittily.” 

“Hey,” Yeosang puts a hand on his knee, and Hongjoong nudges his chin up to look at him. “It’s okay! It’s not ideal, for sure, but the op’s still intact, right?” Hongjoong sighs, and he adds, “And both you and Mingi and the Org are good. It could be a lot worse.”

“Good as far as we know.” Hongjoong shifts in his chair. “I don’t trust Mingi to tell me if anything’s wrong, not anymore,” he grumbles. “He’d take a fucking bullet and keep it to himself, just because I wouldn’t say we coud be best friends forever.”

That might sound childish. Whatever. It’s just Yeosang. 

“You really care about him, huh,” Yeosang says after a pause, considering. 

Hongjoong swallows. “I do.” 

Again, it’s just Yeosang. No one’s going to swoop down, from Leadership or Heaven itself, to crucify him for admitting that. It still feels — well, surprisingly, it doesn’t quite feel wrong to say it. More like he’s relieved. Actually, he realizes, he’s very relieved, having spilled his guts to Yeosang.

“How about this,” Yeosang says kindly, patting Hongjoong’s knee. “I’ll take point on the op. I’ll take over as handler. You just, you know, think about things. We can worry about your feelings after everything’s wrapped and we know Mingi’s safe.” 

“You sure?” Hongjoong blinks at him, relief swelling and cresting in his chest. Yeosang is the fucking best; Wooyoung/Seonghwa don’t @ him. “I don’t want to put any more work on you.”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’ll be good. I’ll let you know if it gets hot, just so you’re updated.” 

“What did I do to deserve you,” Hongjoong says dreamily. He may still be sleep-deprived. 

Yeosang cackles. When he stands, Hongjoong follows, and almost stumbles because he feels so light, weighless, all of a sudden. Yeosang steadies him. “You know what you could do,” he says, looking at Hongjoong with a sneaky smile. “Chicken on you until the op’s done.” 

“Deal. Not all fried, though, or else I’ll feel like a murderer. Grilled is nice on a salad.” 

“Gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” Yeosang says cheerily, “or else I’ll be the murderer!” 

They shake hands. 

__________________________

It goes to shit a lot quicker than Hongjoong expected. 

Everything is fine and fun for the next week — Yeosang confirms that the target is back in the apartment, which makes Hongjoong a tad worried, but nothing happens after that, so he assumes everything is good. He starts to think the op is going to go off without a hitch. He starts sleeping in bursts longer than a few hours at a time. He loses the raccoon eyes. 

Wooyoung, seeing that he’s now showing signs of life, promptly tells him he’s been smelling like a rotting corpse. So he showers. 

And he thinks about Mingi a lot, like A Lot, but he doesn’t have access to his feeds anymore — it’s all Yeosang — so that’s fine. He’s still contactable on TimeOut but Mingi doesn’t text him, obviously. It’s fine. As long as Mingi’s safe, he could forget Hongjoong existed and Hongjoong would still be — he’d be fine. 

Then one day he shows up to work and it’s entirely chaos. 

“Why didn’t you pick up your damn phone!” Seonghwa shouts at him as soon as he’s in the door. “Jesus, Hongjoong, where’ve you been?”

“I’m only a minute late,” he says, bewildered, checking his watch. “What’s going on?”

Yeosang’s got his headphones clamped on his ears, typing furiously. He nudges one side off his ear, just enough to say, “Can you explain please,” and then goes back to writing his George R.R. Martin novel. 

“It’s the pangolin op,” Seonghwa says, and Hongjoong’s stomach does a quick painful flip. “Target found out a rival dealer put a hit on him. 100k prize. He thinks they know where he lives, so he’s gone off to a safe house.”

Wait. Hongjoong shakes his head, panic building inside his chest. He tries to focus. “If they know where he lives, then — ” 

“Yeah.” Seonghwa sounds sympathetic, looking at Hongjoong with a glimmer of understanding among his stress. “We’re tracking Mingi right now. Got a lock on his phone. He’s not at home —” Hongjoong lets out a sigh of relief — “and we keep trying to get in touch, but he’s not picking up.”

“Do we know the location of the guys hired for the hit?”

“Trying to get a lock now,” Wooyoung chimes in from the side. “I think I’m close, but we just heard the target talking about it, so we don’t know exactly who this rival dude is or who his guys are.” 

“I’m going to find Mingi,” Hongjoong declares. 

His mind is completely blank. This is serious, really fucking serious, and Mingi doesn’t even know he’s in danger. Fuck. 

“Okay,” Seonghwa says. “We’ll transfer his tracker to you. And we’ll update you if we get a hard pin on the hit team, okay?”

Hongjoong nods. “Taking the Lambo,” he tells them, grabbing the keys from the wall. 

“He’s gonna fucking crash it, Seonghwa,” he hears Wooyoung whine as he leaves, and Seonghwa responds, “He’s in his feelings, let him be.”

Hongjoong isn’t paying attention. He’s making his damnably short legs work double time running down to the garage, where he hops in the driver’s seat of their collective favorite car, revs the engine, and pulls out with hands that are white-knuckled where they grip the wheel. 

_______________________________

Mingi’s having a grand old time biking home from work. 

It’s a cool 35 degrees Fahrenheit (that’s around five degrees Celsius, give or take 10, for the foreigners among his internal monologue listeners). 

It’s breezy, which is not very nice, because he’d made a late stage pool entrance to check that an old dude was actually floating and not drowning, so his hair’s wet and the cold air is extra shivery on his scalp. 

He’s not even looking forward to beating off when he gets home, for reasons that are obvious. He’s just feeling quite blah. Has been for a while, for reasons that would be — again — quite obvious to loyal subscribers to his internal monologue. 

Once home, he’ll probably heat up a singular Eggo waffle and listen to lo-fi beats until he falls asleep. His roommate’s been super quiet since he got back. YeoYeo, who replaced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as Mingi’s “handler,” keeps telling him everything is fine and dandy. 

Whatever. YeoYeo’s nice, but Mingi doesn’t like talking to him much. 

Again, obvious reasons. 

He’s flying along, firmly in the bike lane where he belongs, when a car comes out of nowhere and skids right in front of him. 

Mingi has to stop very abruptly to avoid going straight over the hood of the car. He still almost falls right off his bike, and his dick and balls get some nasty pressure as he tries to keep himself and the bike upright. 

The car’s slid all the way into the right lane, blocking a whole line of cars, and people are already starting to honk angrily as Mingi blinks away his shock. 

It must have come from the side street, he realizes. The side street that Mingi could’ve sworn was empty just a second ago. And anyway, that street has a stop sign, for fuck’s sake. Mingi had right of way! 

Also, the car is a pretty damn nice black Lambo, because of course it is. Mingi has to take a second to admire it, because it’s not the car’s fault its driver is a mad, hand-challenged lunatic. 

Then the window rolls down. 

_”HJ?”_

Mingi is struck dumb with shock for a second time. That’s definitely HJ. Mingi would recognize him anywhere, not to be dramatic. 

“Mingi, get in the car,” HJ says.

“Wh — huh?” Mingi is having trouble auditorily processing and thinking and analyzing while there are so many cars honking and people shouting in the background. “HJ, what the fuck?” he asks emphatically. 

“We don’t have time for this.” HJ makes a frustrated noise, looking at him with eyes that seem almost shiny with panic. “Mingi, leave the bike and get in the car, now.”

“I’m not gonna leave my bike here just because you tell me to,” Mingi shoots back. Maybe kind of petulantly. “How am I going to get to work? Or class? Or —”

“I’ll buy you a better one,” Hongjoong cuts him off. “Your life is in danger. So please God, just get in the car or else I’ll throw you in, and I don’t want to have to do that.” 

_My what is in what???_ Mingi thinks, shocked for the third time in just a few minutes. 

“Hey, buddy, I don’t care how big your dick is, reverse the fucking car or I’ll reverse it for you!” some dude behind them screams. 

“Do you want me to throw you in?” HJ asks again, with a weird frenzied expression, and Mingi shakes himself. 

“No — I’ll just.” He leaves the bike propped on the sidewalk with a small mental thank you for its service and tendril of hope that it finds a worthy home. Then he jumps in the passenger side. 

Wow! Lambos are really nice fucking cars. The leather seat feels like pure luxury. Also, it’s toasty warm, probably due to the heating system. Mingi feels better already. 

And then HJ reverses the car aggressively, like some kind of action movie hero, and lurches them backwards down the side street he’d come from. 

And Mingi promptly feels really fucking afraid again. 

Also, HJ’s sitting next to him, looking small and fierce and driving like he’s a NASCAR veteran, which is upsetting to his stomach and to the space in his brain reserved for getting horny at bad moments. 

“What was that about my life and danger?” he asks, holding himself to just an iota of hysteria. It’s not easy, the way they’re now vrooming across town, right left right, absolutely no respect for the rules of the road. 

“I’ve got Mingi,” HJ says instead of answering, which is confusing until Mingi hears “Awesome, Hongjoong!” blare out through the car’s sound system. “Shit,” HJ says, giving Mingi the side eye. 

Mingi doesn’t realize why until his very frightened brain thinks, _who’s Hongjoong?_ And then, Hong + Joong, H + J. HJ. 

“Is your name Hongjoong?” he asks incredulously. 

HJ — _Hongjoong_ — just sighs. “I’m taking him to the safehouse,” he says, probably to YeoYeo and whoever else he works with. 

“Wait, we have that single mom from my op in there,” comes the response, from an unknown voice. “We didn’t expect to need to use it for anyone else. Shit.”

Mingi hears some scrabbling typey sounds. The sound system in the Lambo is also really nice, of course. Almost 3D. He wonders how many speakers they shoved in this puppy. Must be more than 20. He could really bop to lo-fi beats in here, that’s for sure. 

Beside him, “Hongjoong” blows air out through his nose. “You haven’t found the team yet, have you?”

“Negative,” the unknown voice says. 

Another sigh. “I’ll take him to my apartment, then.” 

“Copy.”

“Your what?” Mingi says, his knees slamming together for some reason. Then he has to grip the side of the car and hang on for dear life as Hongjoong makes a brutal U-turn in the middle of a four lane road. “Jesus Christ Mother of God,” he says when it’s over, hearing a bunch of angry honks behind them. 

Hongjoong must be really manic right now, because he actually laughs. “I don’t think that’s entirely accurate,” he says, all amused, driving right along like nothing happened.

Mingi glares at him from the side. “Can you do me a favor and explain what the heck is going on?” 

“Your roommate has a hit out on him. Apparently they know where he lives. We were concerned that if they did access the apartment, they might think you were part of his operation and target you as well.”

“Oh,” Mingi says. 

Huh. That actually — that makes a lot of sense. He sits back and tries to process. He’s not sure if it makes him feel better or worse. He supposes he’s already had to sacrifice his bike, and it can’t get much worse than that, aside from actually dying. Laugh Out Loud!

Then he remembers, with a tiny fizz-pop of nerves: “So, wait, you’re taking me to your apartment?”

A car passes into the lane ahead of them, and Hongjoong’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Yes,” he confirms. “You’ll have to stay there while we make sure the hit team is neutralized. And probably for the rest of the operation, since the apartment as a whole is compromised.” His hands loosen on the wheel — Mingi stop looking at his hands take 5,000!!! — and he adds, softer, “I’m sorry. I know it’s not —”

“ — ideal,” Mingi finishes, mocking. 

They exchange a look. 

“Yes,” Hongjoong allows, without missing a beat. Then he looks back at the road, leaving Mingi’s stomach all in knots. “I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to go out until we sort things out. It’s not safe. I’ll — we’ll make you a sick note so you don’t get in trouble at work or school.” 

“Thanks.” Mingi looks at his knees. “Not exactly keeping it professional, huh,” he says quietly. 

This time Hongjoong’s sigh sounds like something well-worn, a sweater with too many holes in it. “I wish I’d gone about that differently,” he says, and it sounds like a confession hanging in the air between them. 

Anyway. Mingi’s not trying to fall for it again, the whole, “funny and charming and potentially interested but also aloof and mean and will cut you off with a ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ at a moment’s notice,” thing.

“Cool, whatever,” he says, running a finger along the leather of the seat. “It was just a joke.”

Luckily, that’s when they pull up to what must be Hongjoong’s apartment complex. It’s rather nondescript, in Mingi’s opinion, but he’ll admit his expectations were a little skewed by the whole black Lambo thing. 

“Don’t get out yet,” Hongjoong warns him, and then he reaches over to — fuck, Mingi snaps his knees together again but Hongjoong’s just reaching over to click open the glove compartment. Phew. 

Except — “Is that a fucking gun?” Mingi squeaks, staring. 

Hongjoong ignores that in favor of checking the _handgun_ over, for who knows what. To see if it’s loaded, maybe? 

Or maybe he’s the guy sent on the hit. Maybe Mingi knows too much about their whole operation, and they’re not the good guys after all; they actually want to get rid of him, and Hongjoong’s going to be the one to do it — 

“Calm down,” Hongjoong tells him, jolting him out of a mess of anxious thoughts. His hand twitches forward like he wants to clasp Mingi’s arm, or shoulder, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, gun in hand, and stares hard at Mingi’s face. “I’m almost sure we weren’t followed, but I want to be careful. Just stay behind me until we reach my apartment, okay?”

 _Easier said than done,_ Mingi thinks sourly, as he crouches behind Hongjoong’s comparatively lesser-sized form. Potential assassins could reach a fair portion of his legs and arms in this configuration. It’s hard to walk this way, too. 

In front of him, Hongjoong grips the gun with both his hands, holding it high against his chest as he leads Mingi forward. He looks like he really knows how to use it. Probably because he has used it, Mingi realizes. 

Mingi does not remember the Inappropriate Horny Space being this large. 

They reach the apartment without running into anyone, criminal or otherwise. Instead of unlocking his door, Hongjoong wraps his hand around the doorknob, tapping his thumb a few times — Morse code, maybe? — and after a second, the door just slides open. 

Then he and Mingi are inside, the door closing behind them. When it snicks shut, Hongjoong makes the most dramatic sigh of relief Mingi’s ever seen him make. His chin drops down to his chest, head hanging like his neck can’t support its weight anymore. His arms relax and fall to his side, gun still clasped in one hand. 

It’s a very uncharacteristic pose, from what Mingi knows of Hongjoong. 

Mingi stands there dumbly and feels like he’s intruding on a private moment, completely out of his depth. “This is nice,” he says nervously. 

Which is a strange parallel to that time Hongjoong had come back to his place. And he should not be thinking about that, for fuck’s sake. 

After a second, Hongjoong straightens up and _tucks the gun into his waistband_ like the unhelpful sex nightmare that he is. “Thanks,” he tells Mingi. And then, eyes focusing more closely on Mingi’s face: “I have to get back to work now — I probably won’t be around much for the next few days. Until the op’s done.”

“Cool, got it. No problemo.”

Hongjoong nods. He seems less tense now, but he’s still noticeably distracted, hands twitchy without the gun. Very different from how fluid and confident he’d been at Mingi’s apartment. It’s very confusing, this version of Hongjoong. “Text me anything you need — charger, food,” he adds. “You can —” his eyes drop to somewhere behind Mingi — “you can borrow my clothes. If you want. Not much here, but it’s all yours.”

“Sounds good,” Mingi manages. This is so far from how he’d imagined his night going, triple damn. _It’s all yours._ His heart, which he’d thought he’d finally shut up for good, beats a weak thump-thump. “Thanks! Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Hongjoong says. With one last look, he does the weird taps on the door handle and slips out. 

Mingi stares after him. _Uh. What the fuck?_

________________________

True to his word, Hongjoong doesn’t come around over the next few days. He does, however, send Mingi a very official-looking doctor’s note that says he has both mono and strep throat, and that he’s unfit for anything but bed rest for the next two weeks. Nice! 

Mingi emails it to his manager and professors with only a tiny pang of guilt. Hey, his life’s in danger! His assassins could show up to the pool and shoot him dead right in front of the synchronized swimming class. Which would be very bad for business. 

But very good for old lady gossip, actually. _Jo Ann, I can’t make it to Bridge next week. My grandson got into Stanford and a corpse fell on me yesterday, can you imagine? Kids these days!_

He texts Hongjoong for a charger, because he actually does need that. It magically appears four hours later, along with some takeout, next to the couch that Mingi’s been sleeping on. Because of course he’s decided to sleep on the couch — this isn’t a Wattpad fanfic. 

Yes, he’d taken a quick peek into Hongjoong’s bedroom when he was first looking around the apartment. And yes, he’d let himself imagine — for the smallest fraction of a second — sleeping in Hongjoong’s bed, surrounded by his smell, for him to find when he came home. 

Ha ha fucking ha! 

Clear the searches: Mingi heterosexual. Mingi born-again virgin. Mingi straight boy. Mingi sex-repulsed. 

Eventually, he showers in Hongjoong’s shower. He uses his shampoo. ~~It’s hot as hell~~ It’s an unscented pharmacy brand. Hongjoong’s body wash is also unscented, just clean soap-smell. 

Mingi has to use every last ounce of his willpower to not jack off in the shower. 

Or anywhere else, for that matter. Masturbating in Hongjoong’s apartment, on his furniture, using his Wifi, seems weird and uncool. Not that Hongjoong hasn’t digitally penetrated him and done other extremely invasive non-physical things to Mingi, but like. A dude doesn’t jerk off on another dude’s sofa when the second dude’s at work. It’s the Bro Code. 

Because they are bros. Mingi’s pretty sure that saving his life in a K-drama-esque fashion, and then housing/entrapping him, merits the bros label. 

On the third day, he creeps into Hongjoong’s room and picks through his hoodies to find one that seems like it would fit him. He finds a fluffy soft red one that feels extra cozy around his freshly-showered self. He also takes a pair of black boxers, which really messes with his no-dick-hands policy. But it wouldn’t be fair to ask Hongjoong to buy him clothes when he’d said Mingi could just borrow some. Haha. Bros, right!

One night he blinks awake to the confusing feeling of a hand brushing his hair out of his eyes. But when he opens his eyes fully, there’s no one there — just a lingering ghost touch on his forehead and, when he looks down, a few boxes of Pocky sitting next to the couch.

Huh. 

It’s been almost six days when Mingi gets super, super bored and starts feeling like he really might go stir-crazy. He’s texted Hongjoong a few times, just checking in and thanking him for the food deliveries, and each time Hongjoong has pretty much said they’re in the thick of it and to wait it out. 

Bluh. Mingi’s need for attention is peaking. Yunho’s already mad he’s “sick” and has to miss their weekly Crash Landing on You stream party, and he’s too busy cramming for finals to respond to texts. 

Mingi spends the day doing squats and trying to learn the TikTok dance for the Beyonce Savage remix.

He also could be studying for finals — he’s got this monster final essay for Renaissance Lit that he knows is gonna suck ass — but whatever. His Life Is In Danger™. Mingi thinks that should cut him a little slack. 

That night he goes to sleep around 3am, as per his usual routine. He wakes up some time later, mouth tasting like grime, knee hanging off the couch, face shoved into the pillow. _Hella_ thirsty. He lies there for a minute attempting to figure out whether he can just drop back off to sleep, but nah — the Thirst is real.

He stumbles off the couch and wanders blindly in the direction of the kitchen. 

Except, huh. There’s a light coming from the closed bathroom door. That doesn’t usually happen. 

Mingi is still mostly asleep, so it takes him crucial extra seconds to realize what that might mean. 

And then the door opens, light spilling out, and Mingi squints against it, eyes scrunching up. 

Hongjoong’s standing in the doorway. 

But wait, it gets worse: He’s in a towel. And nothing else. 

Hot steam curls out of the bathroom behind him, and his hair is wet and falling into his eyes. His nipples are — nipples. Brown-pink. His skin looks soft. Mingi’s never seen his upper body naked before. He’s never seen any part of Hongjoong naked. 

This has to be a dream, right?

Mingi looks, and looks. And then he realizes he’s looking and it’s creepy and wrong, and it must be the heat from the bathroom because he feels feverish. 

Hongjoong’s eyes are on his face when he finally stops looking. 

“I didn’t think you’d be up,” Hongjoong says, kind of cautious, like he’s reaching out a hand to an angry chipmunk. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Mingi feels like he can’t catch his breath. “Hongjoong,” he says, and it feels much, much better than calling him HJ. So much better. Fuck, his real name could’ve been Hotdog John and Mingi would’ve liked it better than HJ, which Mingi had known was fake all along, and had to say it anyway.

Mingi wonders if Hongjoong knows his mouth is slightly open. He wonders if Hongjoong knows he’s moved closer to Mingi, meeting him halfway so they’re standing so close Mingi swears their breaths are intermingling, and he _wants_ so much it’s like a physical pain. 

“The op’s done,” Hongjoong says to his mouth. No one’s ever looked at Mingi’s mouth the way Hongjoong does. Like he can’t look away. Like he’s thinking nasty, unpure thoughts about it right there, fixated. “That’s why I’m back.”

“Cool,” Mingi replies faintly. 

And then he’s not sure what happens but he’s kissing Hongjoong, colliding with his lips and then reorienting instinctually, his hands gripping onto Hongjoong’s narrow hips as soft lips press on his own. 

The kiss starts sweeter and softer than their first. It starts that way, but Mingi’s hands are all over Hongjoong’s naked skin and he smells damp and clean, and Mingi hasn’t come for close to a week. In no time at all, he’s trying desperately to keep from humping right up on Hongjoong’s towel.

One especially whiny noise slips out and Hongjoong pulls back to make some space between them. 

_Please please please please,_ Mingi thinks wildly. 

Fucking [keyboard smash], if Hongjoong pulls his We Can’t I’m A Professional bullshit right now Mingi will lose it, he swears to Satan.

“Hey, is this okay?” Hongjoong is pink-faced and his eyes are very intense, sharp and intelligent and looking at Mingi like he can read his thoughts. He’s got a hand on Mingi’s chest, warm through the T-shirt that Mingi borrowed from him. 

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Mingi forces out. “Aren’t you the one with all the hang-ups?”

Hongjoong’s mouth twists. “Well,” he says, and then clears his throat, “I thought. Since the op’s done…” 

“I would like to have sex with you,” is what Mingi says, straight to the point, when it becomes obvious that Hongjoong isn’t going to say anything more. He blushes like a tomato after. 

“Yeah,” Hongjoong says, more of an exhale than a word. And Mingi may be dumb but he swears Hongjoong’s eyes are darker, gazing up at him. It sends a nice thrill of anticipation down his spine. “Yeah, I’d like that too.”

The next second Hongjoong’s mouth is back on his, and now it’s just like that first time — rough, demanding. He pushes Mingi backwards down the hallway and toward the bedroom, hands latched in Mingi’s shirt to keep him moving in the right direction, still biting his mouth so hard Mingi’s probably gonna have a bruise there tomorrow. 

“Shirt off,” Hongjoong says once they’re in the bedroom. His hands scrabble impatiently at the hem. 

When his shirt is gone Mingi stands there uselessly, self-conscious with his upper half exposed. 

“Shit,” Hongjoong breathes, staring at his chest, and Mingi swallows a noise of surprise as Hongjoong fits his small hands over each of his pecs, rubbing at the skin there. He can’t help but whimper when Hongjoong fucking _pinches_ his nipples, rolling them over between his pointer and thumb.

“Ah, fuck,” Mingi says, and then cringes at how gone he sounds. 

“You’re incredible,” Hongjoong whispers, close to his face, and then he sucks Mingi’s sore lip into his mouth and keeps playing with Mingi’s chest, one hand massaging his pec as the other dips down dangerously close to Mingi’s dick. “Can we take these off?”

 _I am literally your toy,_ Mingi thinks loudly. But he doesn’t say that, because it might be a lot, for their first time. 

First time! That implies there’s gonna be additional times. Whoo-boy.

Somehow he and Hongjoong get his sweatpants off, a true team effort that deserves a silver at least. His dick is out, full of blood, and very happy to be free of its pajama prison. Hongjoong is staring at his erection and Mingi’s barely self conscious at all, not anymore, because Hongjoong has let the towel drop — finally — and wow. 

That’s his penis. Right there. Hongjoong has a really nice dick. It sits right between his ghost-pale thighs, the ones that Mingi suddenly wants to lick like a goddamn puppy. 

“Your dick is awesome,” Mingi says, licking his lips. “It’s so — wow.”

Hongjoong makes a pained sound. “Please stop sounding like a frat boy or else I’ll have performance issues,” he says. But his dick is just as hard as Mingi’s, that red leaking kind of hard — _nice_ — so Mingi is pretty sure it’s a bluff. “You said you wanted to have sex,” Hongjoong continues, looking up from his groin to his face. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

What did he have in mind? Haha, not much! 

“Anal?” Mingi throws out.

“That can be arranged,” Hongjoong says, smiling, and just like that Mingi goes 110% no thoughts head empty. 

“So, can you, like,” Mingi sucks in a breath. “Finger me, or?” 

Is it okay to ask that? The few guys he’s hooked up with have mostly wanted him to top, so he’s only had a real life dick in his ass three times. Each time he’d fingered himself because he felt weird asking the other dude to do it, and also he was afraid they had gross ketchupy fingers and/or would do a shit prep job. And a couple of them had dicks that looked like they’d hurt, so Mingi wanted the prep. 

Hongjoong doesn’t have a monster dick, thank God, but it’s nice and thick and looks almost as long as Mingi’s. So yeah, he still wants the prep. 

Also, Hongjoong’s fingers inside him? Chef’s fucking _French_ kisses. He’s jerked off to that memory a humiliating amount of times since it happened. 

“I can finger you,” Hongjoong says. His eyes are doing that gleaming thing again, which makes him look like a tiny predatory wolf. 

Mingi’s very gay. Abandon the searches now; they’re so unclear they’re fucking opaque. 

“Great!” he says. And then he continues, cringing just a bit: “Could you, like. Tell me what to do, again?”

“Do you prefer it that way?” Hongjoong asks, his head tilted. 

_Yeah that’s my fucking shit bruh!_ internal Mingi says. But Hongjoong said he didn’t want him to be a frat boy, so he just says, “Yeah, I like it. It, y’know. It helps.” 

Bluh — he’s blushing again. But Hongjoong already knew he was a slutty bottom. So. Might as well go for it.

“Okay.” Hongjoong nods again. “I like it, too. Get on the bed. I’ll get some lube.”

He ducks out of the room before Mingi can ask what position he should get into on the bed. Or what he meant by, _I like it too_. 

Huh, okay. Focus. Critical thinking time! 

He decides to get on his hands and knees. It puts the ass front and center, which is the important thing, and it also hides Mingi’s dumb pleasure faces from view. The position always makes him horny as fuck. He’s not sure why. It’s something about exposing himself: ass up, face down, back slightly arched — it hits different. 

“Fuck,” he hears faintly, when Hongjoong’s footsteps return. 

That makes him feel all blushy inside _and_ outside. 

“You look amazing.” That’s a hand on his ass cheek. Mingi tries and fails not to push into it, so sue him, it’s been a while since that part of him’s been touched. And it’s never been touched by Hongjoong, so that’s pretty fucking monumentous. “Okay, I’m putting a finger in.”

He relaxes into the penetration, breathing in-out as Hongjoong’s finger presses into him. 

Mmf. Mingi’s breathing goes wack way too soon, lip held tightly in his teeth. And it’s only been one finger. He’s gonna sing an opera when Hongjoong gets his dick inside him, or explode like a dwarf star, one or the other. 

Hongjoong adds a finger, which is — _eungh,_ wonderful. He’s got two fingers just barely brushing Mingi’s prostate, the best kind of stretch and a huge damn tease. 

Mingi’s such a slut. He’s leaking precome onto Hongjoong’s sheets. “Please, can you just,” he says, voice breaking, “Put it in me, please, I can’t wait anymore.”

He’s never been the best at dirty talk. _Put it in me_ , he sounds like an unfilled pothole. 

But Hongjoong just squeezes the soft curve of his ass and fits a third finger into his hole, slow and deliberate, like that’s his answer. “You’re doing so well,” he tells Mingi, praising in that weird gravelly voice that Mingi remembers so well, the one that’s sponsored many of his nuts. “Almost ready.”

And then Mingi finally, finally feels the thick head of a cock pressing at his hole. Condom on, too: Hongjoong is smart and safe _and_ sexy. He grasps Mingi’s hips and sinks into him slowly. He’s done a good job with prep; the stretch burns just on the right edge of too much. Enough that Mingi’s feeling it when he’s pushed in fully, his crotch seated against Mingi’s ass. 

Incredible. Mingi chances a look down and yeah, his dick’s still hard enough to punch a hole in a wall. 

“You good?” Hongjoong pants out behind him, hands tight on his waist. 

“Good,” Mingi confirms. “Please,” he says, and he’s not exactly sure what he’s asking for, but Hongjoong makes a groan-y sound and starts moving. Fucking him. 

Mingi’s in a dream. It’s rough, too — just like how Hongjoong kisses, but transferred to a dick-in-ass scenario. Pumping into Mingi like he wants him to feel it when he wakes up tomorrow. 

And he’s gonna feel it tomorrow, God, he’s not gonna be able to walk, the way Hongjoong’s fucking his ass. 

“Thank you, ohmy — G-god thank you, h-ah, so good,” Mingi’s babbling, that’s embarrassing. Also, “thank you”?? “Please, ah, so good —” 

Hongjoong drapes himself across Mingi’s back, slowing his thrusts to just circles of his hips, making Mingi whine. “You really are so fucking — responsive,” he says into Mingi’s upper back/neck, where his face reaches, so damn cute. One thrust hits Mingi’s prostate just right, _ohmyfuckingGod,_ and Mingi moans. 

Yes, he’s responsive, they’ve been over this, can Hongjoong please just touch his dick? Please?

Maybe he said that out loud. Hongjoong reaches one of his adorable hands around and wraps it around Mingi’s dripping cock. “Ohno,” Mingi whimpers, “ah ah f-fuck, Hongjoong —”

He comes, then, Hongjoong’s tight grip milking the come out of his dick so so _so_ good, it almost hurts. 

Mingi’s barely sentient when he hears Hongjoong make a rough noise, his thrusts speeding up and pushing him forward like a limp jellyfish on the mattress. “Guh,” Mingi says in response, and then Hongjoong’s hips slow and he all but collapses onto Mingi’s back. 

_What a fun and sexy time,_ Mingi thinks happily. 

Hongjoong rolls off his back. When Mingi turns his face, Hongjoong’s lying on his back, eyes closed, one arm thrown across his forehead. The condom’s gone. “Y’okay?” Mingi asks. 

“Yeah,” Hongjoong answers. Then one eye cracks open, finding Mingi. “You?”

“Great.” 

Hongjoong hums. 

They lay there for a few minutes, and Mingi’s very close to slipping into sleep — hey, it’s almost sunrise at this point, and he’s damn tired. But still, he needs to — 

He says, eyes closed, “I know you probably wanna talk through this, but can we, like. Save that for tomorrow, please?”

A long stretch of silence. 

Mingi forces his eyes open and wow. Hongjoong’s asleep. Curled on his side toward Mingi, mouth open just a sliver as he breathes. It’s peak smol bean behavior. Mingi can’t even be miffed he fell asleep without telling him.

“Great,” he says again, still weirdly happy. He’s just got the best dick of his life from a stupidly hot, funny, beautiful man who makes his heart go all aflutter. Who wouldn’t be over the moon? “Good night, Hongjoong,” he says softly. 

______________________

“I want to date,” Mingi says at breakfast the next morning. He steels himself and makes eye contact with Hongjoong, who’s just paused with his spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “Do you want to date? Me, I mean?”

Hongjoong puts his spoon down. “Mingi,” he says, in his You’re-Not-Gonna-Like-This tone that Mingi knows well. “It’s not that I’m against it, but —”

“But what?” Mingi stares at him, challenging. “I know about your job. I know it’s dangerous. I’m aware and I’m consensually choosing to want to date you, regardless. So,” he continues, riding the wave of bravery he’s gotten from being dicked down, “the question is. Do you want to date me?”

“There are much more appropriate people you could date.” Hongjoong looks at him and it’s not a no, not exactly, even if he looks like he’s in pain. “Mingi, I just don’t want you to — to invest your time in me because of a feeling that’s probably going to go away. You might think you know me enough to want to do that, but I don’t think you do.”

“What’s there to know?” Mingi counters. He wishes he’d stuck with the debate team in high school, instead of quitting it just like swimming. He’s not quitting now, though. “I just said I know about your job. I know about the risks. I know what you do. And I don’t know you very well, but from what I do know,” he swallows, “I like you. A lot. And I don’t think all of it’s been fake, okay?”

Hongjoong lets out a breath. “I’m not — “

“Just — wait,” Mingi cuts him off. He inhales deeply. “So if you’re telling me you don’t want to, like, go out for dinner and movies and dancing and just, I don’t know, chill in bed and shoot the shit with me, then. I don’t know. Is that what you’re saying?” he finishes, defiant. 

Hongjoong just looks at him for a long moment. 

There’s only a year between them but it feels like a lot more, right now. Hongjoong’s eyes look ancient. He’s been through who-knows-what, Mingi remembers. He’s probably seen people die and every part of him is precious and Mingi wants to know him, if Hongjoong would just let him. 

“I want to,” Hongjoong says heavily, as if just saying it is going to make him pass out into his soggy cereal. “I really want to, Mingi. I just — I’m worried.”

Hongjoong may look close to death, but Mingi’s heart is leaping and soaring like a pterodactyl. He wants to! He WANTS TO — 

“That’s okay,” he says, bringing himself back to earth. He can’t keep a wide smile off his face, though. “Really. We’ll figure it out,” he promises, and reaches out to take one of Hongjoong’s hands in his own. 

Probably the hand that was in his ass last night. Which is gross, in a cute way. 

Hongjoong is great at looking at him. He does it for a long fucking series of seconds, and Mingi does his best to meet the Look with steady eyes. He means it. He means everything. It’s not just the magic dick speaking — he wants to do all that shit. With Hongjoong.

“Okay,” Hongjoong says, finally. And then he smiles — truly, sincerely, eyes crinkling up into little crescents. “Okay, we can try it. I’d like that.”

 _You won’t regret it,_ Mingi tells him fervently. 

Inside he’s floating, floating, floating. Hongjoong’s hand squeezes his on the table and Mingi smiles back, uneven front teeth and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> and a quick thanks to usernameum for the lovely hotdog john insight :)
> 
> also, this fic is much inspired by magicsoul's (NCT/WayV) cdf verse and other fics (you've likely read their minjoong classics), so thanks to magicsoul as well!


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